Putting the Damage On
by Whedonist
Summary: A spinoff from the Nikki & Nora A.U. centering around Ann and her team in Virginia - a direct lead in to the last of the N&N series.


Disclaimer: This story centers around a few Original Characters created in my Nikki & Nora A.U. Nikki & Nora do appear here and there those fine women do not belong to me. They are the creation of others much better and more awesome than me.

A/N: This was written for Nanowrimo in 2010. It's been since the end of November of that year, but I've just gotten round to putting it up here. Read and enjoy - also this is largely unbetad and written in less than 30 days. Mistakes are all mine - mea cupla, mea cupla.

* * *

Putting the Damage On

**Ch. 1 – All the World Is a Stage**

She stands in front of the bathroom mirror letting the few people she could tolerate, fuss over the last few touch ups to her person before we leave. One thought persists as I stand off to the side of the entry way to the bathroom.

She's beautiful and she's mine.

That thought is my mantra. I gaze down at the simple white gold band gracing my left ring finger. My mantra manifested. As I look up at her, she's shooing the stylist and the make-up artist away from her coiffed hair and perfectly done make up. Finally, tiring of their fussing.

Said make-up artists turns to me and jabs his finger in my direction, "You, no kissing. Her lipstick is perfect." He says this in a heavy Latino accent, trilling 'r's and all. My smirk forms of its own accord.

Right.

Like I'm going to not kiss my wife when she's all coiffed and gorgeous.

I shake my head and push back my jacket far enough for the butt of my service weapon peaks out. He eeps and scampers away. My eyes trail after him rounding the corner out of the hotel suite's bathroom until a not so subtle cough brings my attention back to the woman of the evening. She's grinning at me.

Her clear, golden brown eyes showing her level of amusement just as much as the grin she's wearing. I step forward and grab her left hand, pulling her to me. My arms fit snuggly around her hips, lock behind her and rest in the small of her back.

She pushes a lock of my hair behind my ear and leans in ready to kiss me. I pull back and shake my head. A pout forms on her full lips. "No, no pout, babe." I shake my head firmly. "You're Latin, make-up person said no kissing."

"He," she says as she grips the back of my neck and pulls us together so that our lips just barely touch, "can kiss my ass." She smirks, pressing forward sealing our lips together in an all too brief kiss. When she pulls back, she swipes my bottom lip taking away some of the transferred lipstick. "But did you really need to show him your gun? That freaks people out."

I only nod before being interrupted, "Are you two ready?" Lee Sherman asks from the doorway. I take in the suit on my high school friend and smile at him. He's pretty handsome with his shaggy, dirty, blonde hair and impish smile. He still looks pretty much the same since the first day of high school when we met. It's kind of weird.

"Tell your friend here to quit kissing me and I think we can leave," I say letting my wife go.

"Ann," she groans, "It's not my fault you are all delicious in that tailored Ann Klein." She smacks her lips, adding, "The lip gloss is yummy too."

"You really should go shopping with us more," Nikki Beaumont's voice fills in from my right. I smile over at Nikki in her little black dress and heels. To her left sandwiched between her and Lee is her partner, Nora Delaney, decked out in a green strapless dress with her hair half up and half down. Her bright green eyes twinkle as she sends her own smirk our way. They all look damn good. I give myself a pat on the back for having good taste in friends.

"Uh, no," I say stepping away from Jill and motion the trio to move out of the doorway so we can leave the hotel. "You and Jill do enough damage without me or Nora being present."

The four laugh and all agree. We file out and to the elevator, light conversation marking our decent to the lobby where a limo is waiting on us. Jill's hand slips into mine as we settle in for the short drive over to Mann's Chinese Theatre and Hollywood Boulevard. My wife's first movie premier's tonight and I know she's nervous.

Hell, I'm nervous and it has absolutely nothing to do with me.

As the limo comes to a stop, the five of us exchange glances and by unspoken agreement, Lee goes first followed by Nikki and Nora. The three leave us inside the private quarters of the limo. Jill squeezes my hand and I smile at her.

"You ready?" I ask.

She nods and sighs. "Are you?" Her question full of meaning, of late night conversations about where her career may be headed.

My response is a nod as I lean in and kiss her cheek. I pull back and offer the only thing I can, "I love you."

She smiles at me, head slightly tilted. "Then let's do this. I've got all I need right here." She holds our linked hands up and I step from the limo first.

The flashing lights and noise assault my senses. Calling up years old techniques from the academy, I school my features and assist my wife in her emergence from the back of the limo. Her appearance sends a slew of photographers into a frenzy; the flashing lights and calls increase tenfold. I feel her tense briefly before her mask falls into place.

An easy smile graces her beautiful face and she pulls me closer, her arm snaking around my waist in a familiar embrace. Nikki, Nora and Lee stand off to the side and allow us to go first, providing the silent support both of us desperately need. It's in this moment I'm thankful my wife insisted our closest friends be here with us.

I don't need to look to know that they are on our heels as we make our way through the horde of reporters and camera men. We move stiltly up the entrance to the theatre. Jill stops and answers questions along the way, making us pause and stand still for photo opportunities along the way. I smile at the right times. I back off and let her stand alone when the need arises, but she never lets me go for long. In all too long a time, we finally make it to the front of the theatre where we're pulled off to the side so that Jill can do a brief interview before heading inside.

I try to step aside, but her grip around my hips tightens when the woman grins at us. "Donna, from Entertainment Weekly," Jill whispers in my ear before giving the reporter her full attention.

"Jill," the woman practically squeals, "It's so good to see you!"

My wife smiles, I think she has the smile screwed onto her face by now and answers, "It's good to see you to. How have you been?"

"Great," the reporter cheeses. The cameraman moves to the side, getting a shot of the three of us standing together as Donna makes the introductions, "This is Donna Rodriguez with Entertainment Weekly, here with the star of East End Girl, Quentin Tarantino's new movie and…" It's then that she finally notices me and her brow furrows slightly before her training kicks in, "Jill, why don't you introduce us to your beautiful guest."

"This is my wife, Ann," Jill beams and then catching our group off guard, she proudly points out the rest, "and these are my friends, this is Lee, Nikki and Nora." The three of them offer a small greeting before the camera zooms back in on Jill, Donna and I.

"This is The Ann?" Donna's face brightens.

Truthfully, I'm a little scared.

"The last interview Jill and I did together, she wouldn't shut up about you!" Donna exclaims.

I decide then this woman talks in exclamations.

"Guilty," I laugh with them.

"Well, we'll," she points between Jill and I, "will catch up off camera later. " Her face sobers again and she turns to the camera, nodding her readiness to the cameraman. "Donna Rodriguez with Entertainment Weekly, here with the star of East End Girl, Quentin Tarantino's new movie, model turned actress Jillian Ness and her partner, Ann." She turns to Jill fully and thrusts the microphone between the three of us. "Jill so good to see you again. Why don't you tell us a little about this movie that pulled you from the pages of our favorite fashion magazines and onto the silver screen?"

"Good to see you again too, Donna. Well, the story is primarily focused around Jennifer Crush and the twists her life takes on one very fateful night."

Donna bobs her head and hmms. "Can't tell us anymore?"

"I would but," Jill shrugs and amends, "It's the whole purpose of the movie. It's this reckless, wild child turning a corner of her life on this one night. Don't want to give too much of it away."

Donna laughs and follows up with, "Tell us a little bit about why you decided to take this role? From the industry buzz, you read over a few scripts before taking this one. Why the wait to transition and why this movie?"

"Well, it's a big step and I didn't want it to be for just any movie. Jennifer's character, her story and the rest of the characters were just…" Jill presses her lips together, deciding on her word choice, "Rich. They were fully realized in what I read and besides, Tarantino? He's hard to say no to."

We share a brief laugh and Donna finishes, "Alright, last one before I let you go, what are you wearing tonight?"

Jill shakes her head, giggling. "De La Renta. I just couldn't say no to this dress." She motions downward and the camera pans down the length of my wife's body clad in a royal blue gown. Her and Donna exchange pleasantries again before we move along.

We pass the entry way and into the lobby, the atmosphere much more subdued in here among the low buzz of chatter. I stand proud with the woman I love as she works the room until we have to take our seats.

Oddly enough, seeing her like this, happy and proud of the work she's done, I've never been happier.

* * *

Tying the sash on the thick cotton robe the hotel provides, I let the hotel worker come in, wheeling in the tray of coffee and breakfast food I'd ordered. John Malone, my boss and partner, chats amiably in my ear as I sign the receipt to bill this morning's breakfast to the room. I see him out and go back to the conversation, "So that puts us at two pendings and we go to trial on the Delong case next week. You think I need to call the A.U.S.A. before I get back?"

"Nah," John answers as I hear some clicks in the background as he types. The phone muffles a bit and I hear, "Will I see you later?"

"John, I don't…call me later and we'll see," the woman answers and I recognize the voice of his wife. I suppress the sigh and feel for him. Together nearly twenty years and last year…something broke. He usually stops my questions with a 'We chose different things' before getting silent and broody.

Her being with him this morning, I look at my watch and note that it's only eight-thirty in Virginia, tells me that they spent the night together or she dropped by earlier.

"Okay, Bec. Talk to you later," he tells her, the voice more than a little robotic.

Now the question is, do I push or not?

Screw it.

"She spend the night?" I ask, pouring myself a generous cup of coffee and adding a little sugar and cream.

"Yeah," he sighs. "I…I think we're trying to fix things."

Sitting on one of the stiff chairs in the sitting area of the suite, I sip the hot, strong coffee before asking, "Is that what you want?"

"What kind of fucking question is that Ann?" he snaps.

I choose to let the outburst go. I also decide it's a good thing we aren't having this conversation face to face, I press, "It's a damn good one. Look, partner, I get it. I know you better than nearly everyone else. Hell, John, I'd bet I know you better than your wife right now. So do me a favor and cut the bullshit for five and fucking talk to me."

I wait, rigidly sitting in my chair. The silence stretches for what feels like a small eternity before he answers, "I want it. I just don't know what she wants. I don't even know if she knows what she wants."

I nod and relax a little. "Well, in the interest of myself and your staff, I think you two should take a holiday. Go away for a week or two and figure out." I amend after a second of thought, "Without the distractions."

"Go off the grid?" he snorts. "Yeah, right. That's not gonna happen."

Setting my coffee down on the end table, I mop my face with my hand and smooth the fly away hairs back off my forehead. "You could," I encourage. "Look, we've two pending cases right?" I don't wait on the answer. "I know we may have a dozen files sitting on our desks collectively that need to be reviewed and summaries written for submission to get back to the departments requesting our assistance. With one trial looming, I think now is the perfect time. It's as slow as we're going to get."

"What if something comes up?" he grinds out.

I smile. His hero complex shining through and getting in the way of my trying to help.

"Luce, Travis and I can handle it." I tease him, "You know we're quite capable. Hell, I'm even allowed to dress myself most mornings now."

"Ann, that's not…you're a bitch sometimes, ya know?" he gives as good as he gets.

"Yeah, you love me anyhow Malone." I sober and get back on track, "Seriously though, take a week or hell be a rebel and take two. You being persona non grata in D.C. has freed you up a little so…"

He huffs two-thousand miles away and I don't need to see him to know the vein in his forehead is pulsing just a little harder, knowing that I've won this round.

"So when I get back in three days, I expect to see you to say hello and then I want you out of my sight for at least a week. Take the pain in the ass you call a wife and try to get laid on a more regular basis." He growls at that and I can't help it, "You not getting any is painful for us all."

"Shut up," he snips, but his annoyance is nothing more than show. We've worked together too long for me not to know him as well as I know myself. We're a lot alike.

We've yet to figure out if two pig-headed, egotistical, hero-complex having agents are the best fit for the Special Investigation Division for the F.B.I., but I guess the real question is if either of us gives a shit.

That answer is a big fat no.

"Alright. I'll talk to Becca tonight and see. Maybe this will be good," he finally concedes

"She will," I confirm. 'Cause I'm going to call her as soon as I hang up with him and get myself into a world of trouble.

"How's things out there by the way?" He shifts and deflects the conversation with ease.

I shrug. "Honestly, a little overwhelming. This isn't my thing, but…" I trail off.

"It's Jill's and she's the best thing you got going for you Flemming. Well, besides me," John ribs.

"Damn skippy. So, it's what it is and I'll be where ever she needs for as long as she needs." I think I take the wind out of his teasing sails.

His voice gets a little more serious as he says, "That's the way it should be."

"Well, I like to think I'm quicker on the uptake than most. Besides, I have a great example of how not to do things." My words intending to tease not hurt. I look up as one of the double doors to the bedroom open up and Jill comes out, glasses on, hair rumpled and looking too damn sexy in her robe.

"Yeah well, I may just start picking up a few things from you." I hear papers begin to rustle in the background and a 'good morning'.

Travis must have stopped by his house.

"Travis says hey," John confirms.

I watch my wife shuffle over and plop herself in my lap. She kisses my cheek and then snatches the coffee. Rolling my eyes, I say, "Tell Travis, hey."

"If that's who I think that is," Jill mumbles, laying her head against my shoulder, "Tell him I said good morning and to get the fuck off the phone with my wife. He doesn't need to be flirting with you while you're on vacation."

John laughs in my ear as a rumble of my laughter shakes the two of us in the chair. Knowing what's coming, I pull my BlackBerry from my ear and hit the speaker phone option. "You hear that, John?"

"Yeah. Good morning, Jill," he says.

"G'mornin'." My wife, never one to miss a damn thing asks, "There a reason why you have me up at such an ungodly hour?"

"Just trying to keep that thing you call your partner on her toes. Can't have her getting lazy while she's sunning it up in the land of fruits and nuts."

My lips purse and I pout, "Hey, you two, I'm still right here."

Jill sends me a smirk, but John says, "Unfortunately."

"It's too damn early for this type of abuse. I'll read over the file from Louisville and send you my report later today," I try to end the call before Jill really wakes up and they get meaner.

"Sounds good. Don't bother with the assistant U.S. attorney. He can wait until you get back. Travis is giving me the evil eye which means we're going to be late for a meeting. Take care you two and I'll see you both soon." Before disconnecting he says, "We're proud of you, Jill. Knock those Hollywood fuckers on their collective, liposuctioned asses."

Jill can only giggle and beam at his statement. She knows just as well as I do that's the best anyone will ever get in the way of support and an 'I love you' from the guy.

"Bye, John," I say and end the call.

I set the hunk of plastic and silicone on the end table, taking the coffee cup from my wife. Finally wrapping my arms around her, she burrows into me and I plant a kiss on top of her messy head.

"You gonna come back to bed now?" she yawns.

"Depends," I purr nipping playfully at the tip of her nose.

She looks up at me and scowls. "We have to be at Miramax at ten. Don't tease me, it's too early," she whines. My Jill is and was never much a morning person.

I hate it when she whines.

I cave. I cave like a piece of cheap, wet cardboard. She knows this and it's completely unfair.

"Alright Princess. Let's get you back to bed." I debate on whether or not to try and carry her. Deciding to not ruin my back, I let her get off me as I stand and stretch.

"You're losing the robe right?" she asks as a finger hooks in the opening of the front and she peers down. God she can be such a perv sometimes.

I shake my head and lead her back to our bed, secretly happy that she is a perv.

I, myself, have been accused of having the mindset of a fifteen year old boy. I think it's a good fit. I move to shut the door and see my phone. Quickly, I walk back to it and dial a familiar number.

Stepping into the bedroom as the phone rings, Jill looks at me with a raised brow. I hold a finger up asking for a moment more of patience as Rebecca Malone picks up, "Doctor Malone."

"Becca, it's Ann," I reply.

"Good morning Ann," she huffs. Becca is usually terse on the phone. I quit taking it personally years ago.

"Hey, I need a favor…" I shut the bedroom door and pray that she'll see reason.

* * *

My friends flank me sitting on a couch on a soundstage at Miramax studios. A few feet away Jill sits in a chair that's usually found on a movie set and a reporter, his name forgotten before it was mentioned, sits across from her. They've been discussing the movie for about twenty minutes. My girl handles herself well, but I tune into the conversation when the subject shifts, he asks, "Jill, do you think being an out celebrity figure has impacted your career?"

I bristle. I shouldn't, but our relationship was an issue for the first few years of her career. I'm not looking to go through that round of bullshit again.

For her part, Jill smiles, shaking her head gently. With a slight edge, she asks in return, "Does being heterosexual impact other women in my position?"

Lee, Nikki and Nora all perk up at the way the conversation has shifted.

"I think I'd have to ask heterosexual women in your position to really get a good response," he laughs, but goes right back to the line of questioning, "Being out though has had to impact you. Even when you first started your career as a model in the early Nineties and then you came out in Ninety-Four with your partner. It wasn't as acceptable then as it is now, did you struggle?"

Jill's lips form a thin line as her brow furrows. Her face lets me know how she's trying to handle the question. "I've addressed most of this in previous interviews so I'm hesitant to do that here, but I'll say this, it's never been about being 'out' or 'in' with me. I'd like to move past a dialogue of gay or straight. It's dichotic and counterproductive to the struggle for equality." Her hands clasp across her top knee and she continues, "Was it a struggle in the industry, sometimes, but that was hardly the most challenging aspect. My marriage is also something that I'd never hide. Like my wife has said, I respect her and the bond that we share too much to deny its existence for a bigger bank account." She sends me a smile then, her eyes locking onto mine. "It will never be a choice. So in those terms, it's a no brainer and not even a contest."

The interviewer takes it on the chin well and follows up, "Admirable. So then, given that young women see you in magazines and billboards and now the theatre, do you think your personal relationship with," he looks down briefly at a note card in his hand, "Ann, influences others to live openly?"

Again I bristle and skirt my eyes to Nora and then to Nikki. This subject an area of contention in their relationship. For their part, Nora's face is a mask and Nikki's mouth's quirked up in a tiny smirk.

"I never set out to be the Lesbian Poster Model, but I think that seeing other people like yourself when you feel like an outsider…sometimes, well…I hope it gives a certain amount of strength to allow anyone to be free and live as they like. If they get that from me, great; if not, then I hope they find the strength elsewhere."

The man nods and finishes up, "Well stated. I think we're good." Both stand and stretch, Jill seeking me out. I stand, walk over to them and Jill's arms snakes around my waist as she kisses my temple. I grin at her and stick my hand out in greeting, "Ann Flemming."

"Mike," the man with the hipster haircut and clothes takes my hand giving it a few quick pumps.

I can't help the initial, gut reaction that takes over and the word 'tool' flashes across the billboard in my mind. Jill must see it, because the hand that's gripping my hip tightens.

She never lets me have any fun.

"It's good to meet you, Ann," Mike says. "I've seen pictures of you two together and you make a hot couple."

My jaw clenches, Nora and Lee both shoot me glances, but it's my wife that rescues me, "Well, she's more than just a pretty face. Although, the eye candy doesn't hurt." I swivel a playful glare in her direction and she winks.

Rolling my eyes, I'm about to respond when my hip vibrates.

Crap.

I pull the phone from my left hip pocket and answer, "Flemming," I break away from my wife and go off to the side.

"Ann," John's voice comes through the speaker, "How's the day?"

"Jill's just finishing up an interview and then we're dropping her off at another hotel downtown for a roundtable with the cast. What's up?" My free hand gets tucked under the arm that's holding the cell phone. I shoot an apologetic glance over to my friends and wife.

"Well, uh, Luce was running the weekly search through ViCAP and something pinged in L.A." he explains. "I was hoping that you could swing by their headquarters, a Hundred West First and pick the file up?"

I roll my eyes. Things ping on Luce's search all the time. It's why the F.B.I. put together the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, otherwise known as ViCAP. "Why the rush?" I ask because usually the locals just FedEx the reports to us so we that we can review and offer opinion. Sometimes those opinions are enough to help local departments make an arrest and sometimes they aren't.

"Truth?" he asks, knowing damn well that it's a stupid question.

"Uh-huh," I answer. Of course, I want the truth.

"There was a similar case that popped a few months back. We flagged it, but nothing's ever come of it. This is the first time I've seen a similar report from any other department."

I should have been clearer and told him to give me an answer that I was going to like. See this is the thing about my job. We're a vague unit inside the Federal Bureau of Investigations. Special Investigations handles hard to solve murders, kidnappings and serial killings. I started work as a profiler for this unit in Ninety-Five, twelve years ago. My boss and partner, Director John Malone, also allows his team, me, Special Agents Lucy Walker and Travis Washington, the ability to assist on other units and agencies investigations, while handling our own case loads.

For the most part this works. On occasion, when John gets a bug up his ass or when something hits him the wrong way, he focuses all of his attention on one case or most of the time a set of cases. The tone I hear now tells me that that's where this is headed, so I goad, "And the terms 'vacation' and 'no work type stuff' mean nothing to you?"

He sighs. "Just swing by and pick up the file."

"Why are you doing this?" I ask; my free hand now on my hips as my foot beats rapidly on the floor.

"Ann," he tries to soften his tone, "when you get the file, you'll see. Please?"

I pull the phone away from my ear. He never 'pleases' me. In fact in the entire time that we've been working together, I can count on one hand the number of times he's asked that of me. I bring the phone back to my ear and say, "Okay. Who am I asking for?"

Sometimes with John it's all about picking your battles. This isn't one I'm going to fight. If he thinks it's that important, I'm done questioning.

"Commander Manuel Castillo," he answers. "Should you put Jill on the phone now or later?"

I smile. I can't help it. "Don't worry about her. I'll take care of the woman, but if I get hurt, you're paying the hospital bills."

"Deal," he agrees too readily and then says, "I need to, uh Becca agreed to go away, but with this new case…"

"No," I shake my head, "you aren't doing this. Look," I sigh and run a hand through my hair, "I've got Nik and Nor here. What about you get me that other file that flagged tonight. Have it waiting at the hotel for me around seven p.m. and I'll review with the girls. Call me tomorrow and we'll give you an honest opinion. If it's serious, we'll discuss you not taking time, but if it's something the team and I can handle, you go and leave the house unattended."

"I…Ann," he stammers. I get it. I mean sort of. He and Rebecca were so solid and then it just crumbled and he really hasn't been the same since. The fact that he's spent more time in our spare bedroom then I care to admit is a telling sign. He needs this and fuck, if I'm being honest with myself, I need this. I need my partner back.

"Seriously, this isn't up for a discussion. John, I let you have your way when I think that I'm not right or when I figure it's not worth the fight, but dammit, don't make me dig my heels in here."

"Okay," he lets it go and I release the breath that I was holding.

"Good, now I'm going to go and make good with my wife; call your wife and finalize the plans." I shoot a look over at the woman in discussion and she looks only slightly annoyed with a side of amused.

I can work with that.

"Deal. Tell Jill I owe her one." He doesn't wait for me to say anything else as the line goes dead.

I pull the phone away and scowl at the blinking screen. I swear that's one of his most annoying qualities. He can't even wait for me to say goodbye.

I huff as I stuff my phone back in my pocket. Plastering on a cheesy grin, I approach my wife, palms held up in a look of surrender. Her eyebrow cocks and the three supposed friends of mine snicker.

I'm so screwed

* * *

"And people on set questioned where I got my dark sense of humor," Jill grumps from her seat on the couch in the hotel suite.

I'd retort, but I've nothing to really add to that. I can't deny that my work is hard to look at, nor can I deny that it has trickled into my home life. With our schedules, if I'm out of town, Jill will actually travel with me if her schedule permits. So needless to say, she's seen some fairly disturbing shit.

I hate that. I hate that she's exposed to this. I don't even think I should be, but it's the job. The crazy thing is, is that I love my job. John just says it's 'cause I'm nuts. I say it's because I'm a masochist. Jill says it's six of one and half dozen of another so why argue a moot point.

She's smart that wife of mine.

It's Nora that responds to Jill's comment, "It's a defense mechanism, Jill. If we don't laugh, we'll cry or we'll go ape shit crazy. Laughing's usually the best."

She's smart too, that best friend of mine.

Instead of actually participating in the conversation, I go back to the responding officer's police report. The file that we picked up from Commander Castillo was not so much a file, but a banker's box. He also kindly informed me that the body is still on ice, but set to be released, pending any major breaks in the case, to the family tomorrow. We just got to the file in under the wire.

Usually, we get files where we don't have a body to work with. I hate that. Our department has their own medical examiner and she's highly underutilized. This time, if we move forward, I think we'll have something to work with; so I go back to the file, chewing on my lower lip.

The responding officer's report is typical, very standard. A call came in at twenty-two-oh-eight on Tuesday, September Thirty at 767549 West Via Paloma. The caller identified himself as the husband, Alfred Sheridan, of Maria Sheridan. The officer, Kyle Bustamante, came to the scene with E.M.T.'s. Kyle secured the scene, talked the husband down a little and handed the man to one of the E.M.T.'s to treat for shock.

The body was found in the master bedroom, laying face up in the bed. Kyle's report gets more robotic from there. I glance over at the crime scene photos to actually take in the scene for myself. And this is where Jill's comment from earlier comes in. I've seen a lot in my time with the Bureau. The worst is always kids, but thankfully, those cases are few and far between. I can count the handful of times we've had to deal with kids, but then again, what I'm looking at isn't much better.

The body of the vic is laying face up on the bed. If you were just coming into the room and glanced at the body, you'd think they had a towel over their face, but that's not so. The close up of the corpse in the initial stages of decomp are still very recognizable. Except for one minor detail. The skin on the woman's face has been cleanly excised. What you actually see in the photo, is the tissue underneath. Clean lines of muscle tissue and tendons glare back at the lens. With no lips, the victim's teeth are clearly exposed. The eyelids, a piece of anatomy used to respect the dead, are missing. Usually closed eyelids hide the lifeless eyes from our sight. With her's, you can't. The woman's ocular cavities are clearly visible, the orbs protruding from the face. You can see where the skin was removed around the hairline, down in front of the ears and under the jaw. The flesh of the neck is still intact.

The forensic photographer did well in capturing the position of the body. Supine, with her hands clasped serenely over her waist. Her left hand placed atop the right. Nothing else out of place, not even her hair, which had been combed back into a ponytail. The report states that the husband was able to identify the wife by a small palm tree tattoo on the top of her foot.

My lips purse and I finish off Officer Bustamante's report. The responding Detective's, Adrian Ting, is very similar. The investigation really didn't go anywhere. Alfred Sheridan had a rock solid alibi; he was upstate in San Francisco for work. He returned that evening from a flight into L.A. and found his wife like that. No signs of forced entry. No signs of an altercation. Mr. Sheridan said everything was as it should have been…except for his wife dead with her face missing on their bed.

I snort, see this is where the inappropriate humor comes in, 'cause it's not funny but…

It's damn absurd.

I mean to put myself in that position to come home and find Jill…I shudder. No, we will not go down _that_ road. The occasional nightmare I have is good for me. I don't need my wife's face on the body of the victims any more than my nightmares allow.

Nikki looks up at me, at my half snort half growl. I shrug at her and she holds up the file that John had delivered. The first case that flagged for him. Nikki and Nora agreed that they would look over that and then we'd convene to give our assessment.

Thank God, they're here. Having two other detectives here with me is a Godsend. I watch them with their heads together reading over the same report. Nikki pointing to one thing then Nora pointing at something else. The ease that they share is visible and even a little admirable. John and I don't work that well together and we've been partners for twelve years. Of course, the little snarky voice in my head snickers and reminds me that John and I don't live together and do not have sex. They do.

With them as work partners for the New Orleans Police Department, I can kinda see why Nora's stayed in the closet for as long as she has, but…what they've gotten into together, it's near career suicide. Not because they're gay, although in NOLA I'm not sure how well that would go over, but more because they're partners.

Although as taboo as it is, thing are different, way different now than they were ten years ago. It also doesn't hurt my ex-girlfriend turned best friend, Nora, that her old partner turned boss knows about the two of them. Dan's an all right guy. He's letting them operate under their own private version of 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell,' which I suppose is fair enough. They could all be in some serious hot water with I.A.B. if it ever came out. Not to mention it would call into question the majority of their cases.

It would be pure bullshit and a witch-hunt, but their careers would suffer. Both women are too good at what they do and they care too much for that to happen. It shouldn't.

Doesn't mean it won't.

"You done?" I hear Nora ask.

I shake my head and blink. I must have been staring. I stick my tongue out at her and glance around the room. Lee and Jill are pointedly ignoring the images around them and watching something…I stare at the T.V. a moment before I recognize a rerun of Buffy on the screen. Rolling my eyes, I look back over at the two detectives.

"Yeah, I was waiting on you two," I answer blandly, dropping the paper from my hands and looking at the photographs we have tacked up on a wall. The outline from the mirror that was hanging in that spot clearly visible due to the discolored wallpaper that surrounded it.

"Well?" Nikki asks.

"Well?" I reply.

We all roll our eyes and Nora goes first. "The victim from this case, Margaret Talbert, from Duluth, Minnesota. Blonde hair, brown eyes, thirty years old. Was reported missing by her family on Saturday, June Eighth, of this year. Nothing came of the missing persons report. Her body was discovered a short time later at the beginning of July…" She looks down at the file and flips a few pages over. "Report says body was discovered by a father and son on Seven-oh-two. That's a little less than a month in hot, humid weather." Her nose crinkles and mouth pinches.

"It may not have been that bad. Hopefully," I say. I mean that long out, exposed in the woods over some of the hottest months. "Scavengers?"

Nikki nods. "Report indicates a few; her body for the most part was intact." Nikki looks pointedly at the photos we have up and amends, "Well, as intact as a body can be without the face. She was identified by an old sports break on her left femur."

"Why was the face gone?" I ask. Not really wanting an answer, but…I feel obligated.

"M.E. concluded that facial skin was removed prior to death. The scavengers got to the eyes and the remaining soft tissue," Nora answers.

"Fuck." It's all I really have.

Well there's more, but I think that sums it all up.

"Is this enough to cry serial, Ann?" Nikki asks, chewing on her lower lip. I'd smile at the habit, considering she picked it up from Nora, but I'm out of smiles for the next twenty minutes at least.

My mouth screws to the side as I stand. Planting my feet in front of the wall holding the photos I take in each scene. The photographer in Duluth wasn't as thorough, but considering…I really shouldn't expect it.

There are large discrepancies, placement of the victim, eye color, hair color, location of the body, but the link, namely the missing face, well that's big. I mop my face with my right hand and rub my eyes. I need to work through this. "Okay, let's run down a list of commonalities, age and race are both a match. What was the cause of death for the first victim?"

"Inconclusive," Nikki calls out.

"Alright, cause of death on the second was heart failure. Both of their faces were removed, both M.E.'s were confident enough in their findings to say that that was done while they were alive."

"Pleasant," Nora snarks.

"Sugga," Nikki starts.

"The differences," I cut in, turning to face them, "are…?"

"Location is huge," Nikki fills in.

"Hair and eye color are another," Nora supplies.

"Also," Nikki picks up right after Nora's words die out, "From the little bit of training at the F.B.I. field office, serial killers don't move around like this. Not usually. S.O.P.'s usually profile them with sticking to a safety zone. An area that they feel most comfortable in. We've got one body in Minnesota and one in California. Last map I checked put them in different parts of the country."

"There's that," I agree with her, resting my hands on my hips, my right fingers patting out a random rhythm on my hip. "But, it really does depend on how nomadic the killer is. Which," I pause, loath to actually voice my professional opinion, "If these cases were to land on my desk from the same office, I'd attach the word 'serial' to the killings."

"So, now what?" Nora looks at me, already knowing the answer.

I shrug. "Call my partner and go from there."

I hear Jill groan from the living area. Lee gives her a pat sympathetic grunt while the other two just shrug right along with me.

It's a hazard of the job.

* * *

**Ch. 2 – It's All Fun**

The white board to the left of my desk at the F.B.I. headquarters in Quantico, glares back at me accusingly. As the end of the first quarter of Two-Thousand-Nine comes to an end, our case load is no lighter. There are still stacks of open cases to be reviewed sitting on my desk and the four open cases that are actually assigned to me have gone absolutely nowhere. We won't count the fact that each of the four open cases are multiple homicides and that more people are probably dying because I can't crack the code…

Well, to say I'm in a damn shitty mood is putting it mildly.

So I glare right back at my white board and toss my pen on top of my notebook. I've been through three reviews today and John's been running around here like his hair's on fire. Lucy and Travis are both in the field on special assignment with the U.S. Marines and I've no urge to know what the hell they're getting up to. What I do know is that for the past few months, after Jill and I came home from L.A. and I was pretty much stonewalled on the missing face cases, everything sorta spiraled.

"While watching you give our case board a death glare is at least entertaining, it's not doing anything to close any of them up there?" John teases.

His voice is an easy, deep timbre and it shakes me from my brooding. I blink and look at him. His dark brown hair is styled like it always is, short, squared around the back and ear and parted off to the right so that the front sort of flips over and rests over his forehead. His blue jeans, black v-neck t-shirt and boots are a casual look for him today, but I don't question it. His arms are folded across his broad chest, highlighting his large arms, but his bright brown eyes twinkle down at me.

"Yeah well…" I trail off. He doesn't really deserve my meanness today so I let it go. "Things good on your end today?"

He shrugs. "We're trying to secure a bit more funding for the department and you and me, kiddo, we've got our hands full with everything else."

"Yeah, I know," I say, tipping back in my chair and placing my loafered foot on the edge of my desk. Lacing my fingers behind my head, I tip back and relax my stiff back.

"What we need to do is clear some of these files from your desk." His face breaks out into the trade mark 'John Malone's trying to make Ann feel better' grin. "I don't want it to break in half and have it fall on you. Replacing you'd be a pain in the ass. Who has time for all those damn interviews?"

I swat at his arm and he evades the blow. "Yeah, well," I look over at his desk, letting his eyes follow mine, "Yours isn't in any better shape partner."

"I'm the boss, I'm supposed to have a desk that looks like that," he jokes and nudges the base of my chair with his left foot. "Really though, run me down the current list. Let's put these consults to bed and then we can go back to beating our heads off a brick wall for _our_ four actives."

"Pull up a chair, old timer," I tease moving him out of the way to start the process of clearing my desk. He pulls up one of the free chairs and sits off to my left. I pull the first open case and begin, "Came in three days ago, Boston P.D. wanted our thoughts on the killer's profile. Female vic, found by her sister, bludgeoned and raped. Only open case like this so far, but the D's working it are getting heat so Tami kicked them our info, hoping to get a lead."

His hand stretches out and takes the file from my grasp. I watch as he scans the documents that were sent over. He sniffs and not looking up from the reports, asks, "Thoughts?"

"Off the cuff, the killer not only knew the vic, but was intimate. She's had a couple of boyfriends in and out of her life over the past two years. My thoughts are to point the D's in their direction. I pulled the info on the two most recent. I'd put one on it being the second lover. He's clean, but for one little incident as a juvi."

He looks up at that and cocks an eyebrow. "You pull the minor records?"

"I had a peek." I wink at him and he shakes his head. "The case as a juvi was dismissed, but the kid took a skateboard to a classmate."

Both his eyebrows rise at that and he asks, "Why?"

"The other kid asked his girlfriend for help on a school project," I say, my tone just this side of sarcastic.

"Write it up with the usual. How are you going to point them in that direction without telling them that you accessed sealed records?" he wonders and tosses the file to his right on the edge of my desk.

"I'll throw in some big words and psychological terminology. A.D.A.'s love it in court." I shrug and hand him the next file. "This is actually a little more cut and dry. Mechanicsville, Wyoming Sherriff sent this over to take a look at. Teenager dumped off the side of the highway. Beaten to death. They arrested the mother forty-eight hours after the body was found."

"So we have the case because?" he asks opening the file and taking a perfunctory glance at the contents, flipping up the DVD that's attached.

"They want a more formal assessment of the mother. I was thinking you hand that off to someone from the field office in the state. They can go down and interview the mom. Hmmm and uhmm in the right spots and then offer the professional assessment that the mom's bat shit crazy when they're done."

He snorts. "Reports indicate a full confession. She say why?"

I nod and feel the need to have a little fun. "Take a guess?"

He frowns at this, but decides to play along. "Uh, the T.V. told me to?"

I shake my head.

"Aliens?"

I frown at him. "Can you be any less original?"

He scratches at his smooth rounded jaw line. His tongue gets clamped between his teeth letting the tip poke out between his full lips. "The will of God?" he tried.

I roll my eyes.

"I'm stumped. Out with it Flemming!" He laughs and hands the file back to me.

"The woman claims that he's been asking her to," I sing song.

"Eh? Assisted suicide?" His face pinches at the thought and he shakes his head.

"Yes, she claims that for the past three years, he begs her to kill him in her dreams." I pick the file back up and flip to the verbatim interview, and read off:

"_The dreams are horrible. He comes to me. Begs me" – Patricia Schott Inmate# 25-7836C_

"_Who is he?" – Michael Volst Deputy Sherriff_

"_Winnie the Pooh." – Patricia Schott Inmate# 25-7836C_

"_So, Winnie the Pooh speaks to you in your dreams and tells you to kill your son?" – Michael Volst Deputy Sherriff_

"_No…yes…it's…it looks like Winnie the Pooh, but he…oh,God, he sounds like Jeremy." – Patricia Schott Inmate# 25-7836C_

I set the file down and smile, a sad sort of resigned smile. John's mouth hangs open just a little.

"So," I finally say, letting the transcript sink in before continuing, "You want to send this over to someone in the field office?"

He mops his face with his hands, blowing a half raspberry. "Yeah." He takes the file and sits it next to the other one. "Alright what else?"

I point to a small stack and say, "Just a few others that are actually done. I need to ship them out and a small group that I'm taking home tonight. What have you got over there?" I jut my chin in the direction of his desk, it sits facing mine with the two front ends shoved together.

"Nothing that I can't finish tonight if I knuckle down." He shrugs of the inquiry.

This causes my face to sour. "John, seriously, you have just as much crap on your desk as I do mine."

"I know, but some of it's just waiting for me to sign off on and the other last bit is all related to our open docket. I have a couple of motions to write for our A.U.S.A. and then we're golden." He looks down at his watch and sighs. "But, it's pushing five. I promised Becca I'd be home in time for dinner and isn't Lee supposed to be coming over for dinner with you two tonight?"

I nod. "Yeah, Jill's going to attempt to cook."

I smirk as his lips press together. "You think that's such a good idea."

I shake my head remembering the last time she tried to make a meal. Three months ago, she wanted to do something special after a particularly nasty case had ended. She tried making an Italian soup, _Pasta Fasule. _It cost us nearly five grand 'cause she set the stove and back wall on fire.

"She promised nothing elaborate. I think she's using the crock-pot. I hope that it's chili. She can make that." I gather the folders that I'm going to take home and dump them in my backpack, causing the seams to stretch just a tad. Most professionals get briefcases or an attaché, but me, I get a Timberland camping backpack.

"We'll hope for the best. If I hear a call for the FD come over the scanner, you want me to pop over?" he deadpans standing up to begin packing his own take home work.

"Nah, I think I'll just let the place burn and move in next to you," I retort.

"Flemming, don't joke. That kind of shit is serious. I'm forty-one years old, been shot more times than I can count and have lived to tell the tale. Don't put me in an early grave by shacking up next to me." I watch him pocket the keys to his Wrangler and look at me expectantly. "You ready?"

I nod and sling my backpack over one shoulder, pick up keys to my baby, Apollo. He's a black Audi A5 Coupe with all the sexy trim on the outside and all the functionality I could ever want on the inside. Usually, I'm frugal. I'm cheap and I hate spending money on myself. I will however spend whatever I damn well please on Jill and on the occasion Nora if she lets me, but that's rare. A year and a half ago, I was driving my car, a dependable, but inexpensive Ninety-Two, two-door Acura Integra, his name was J.D., when I hit a patch of black ice and crashed. It was our second accident together, but J.D. was toast. So, having more money than I did when I first purchased J.D., along with Jill knowing how much I had fallen for the model of the vehicle insisted that I splurge for once on something for me. So I did and I'm happy to say I no longer drool all over myself when I see one 'cause I've got one of my very own.

A year later and Apollo and I are very close. John even had the interior outfitted to function as a mobile office, complete with GPS, satellite uplinks to our systems for work and a killer sound system. Following the man that gave me one of the best presents on the planet out of our office, I squinted against the setting sun. As we walk to our cars, the wind picks up and I curse the fact that I left my jacket hanging off my chair.

"See you tomorrow, Ann." He winks and says, "Give that wife a big kiss for me."

"Same to Becca," I shoot back and slip into the cab of my car. I turn my other baby over and drive off, John following me out to the service road and to the highway. He turns off three exists before me and we go our separate ways.

* * *

I take my time getting home, enjoying the drive through the foothills of the Appalachians. Heading south on I-95, I let the classic rock station play in the background. It's a forty minute drive from my house to my office and it's usually the only time I have to settle down before going home. My commute used to be longer, two hours and some change, but a few years ago after a nasty little accident, the first one J.D. and I were in, Jill insisted that we move out of Richmond and closer to my work.

It didn't hurt that getting out of Richmond put more distance between me and the little bit of family that I have left. I'd rather not have anything to do with them, but they still call from time to time. Cousins or an errant uncle or aunt needing help. The bad part about the move is that it took us farther from our friends and Jill's family, who are awesome.

Fredericksburg isn't the biggest, but it suits our needs fine. I mean for Jill, who never really had that urge to leave her hometown to begin with, it's perfect. For me, it's where she is so…

I'm happy.

I grin as I pull into our driveway. Her Honda sits in its spot and the lights blaze from our front window. Sometimes, I have to stop and appreciate the things I have. I usually find that I do it with the oddest reminders that this is my life. If you had asked me when I got out of high school if this is where I thought I'd be, I would have called you crazy.

Jill and I had virtually stopped talking during college, shortly after I had my little revelation. God that was…Jill, Lee and I had been inseparable since our first day of high school when we met. At the beginning of our sophomore year, Lee and Jill started dating. Midway through that same year, they broke up. Being the best friend to each, I was left to pick up the pieces.

Somewhere along the way, I realized a few things, the first, I was hopelessly and irrevocably in love with my best girlfriend and the second was that I was queerer than a three dollar bill. Lee, after much cajoling, convinced me that I needed to talk to Jill because in his expert opinion, she loved me like I loved her. So I told her, in a letter while we all attended the U of Richmond.

Very cliché and as I got out into the gay community, I realized not all that uncommon. At least I wasn't alone when Jill pretty much stopped talking to me for three years. We had had the occasional conversation and the go between messages with Lee, but…

In that time, I moved out of Richmond, down to New Orleans, got my B.S. and joined the police force while falling for a green eyed blonde. It was at our graduation party from the Academy that Jill and I were reunited.

Nora in her infinite wisdom and her love for me wanted to make sure that I had friends there for the celebration. In walk Lee and Jill. And my Jill…well she decided to turn my world upside down. Nora and I broke up, Jill moved to NOLA and we've been together ever since.

From what I know, not all lesbian-falls-for-best friend coming out clichés end up as well as mine. All I can say is I feel for those that don't get the girl. Jill and I are coming up on our fifteenth anniversary. I need to plan something big. I let out a contented sigh, park the car, gather my things and trudge up the walkway that's stained from the salt used during the worst of the winter months. Pushing open the unlocked front door, I call out, "Babe?"

"Kitchen," she hollers back.

I dump my stuff on the dining room table that is only used for holidays and make my way into the kitchen. I grin from ear to ear as she dances in front of the stove. Her iPod is docked off to my right. I check the display and see the band, Tool, rolling across its face. My girl has interesting tastes in music, I've caught her listening to what she calls "street punk" to Elton John and everything in between.

I wrap my arms around her waist, reveling in the feel of her taller form relaxing into me. Moving her shoulder length, brunette hair to the side, I kiss the nape of her neck and feel her shudder. Yeah, it's good to be home.

"How was your day?" she mumbles.

I shrug. "It was a day. I've got some files to go through, but if you give me two hours or less tonight I'm all yours," I bargain with her.

She spins around and plants a kiss on my lips, bringing her arms around my neck. Pulling back, she counters, "How about I give you an hour while we wait on Lee and his hooker of the month to get here?"

I quirk an eyebrow. "Hooker of the month?"

Her lips form a pout and she whines, "He has the most horrible taste in women! I mean how am I supposed to feel after I was the last decent girl he's dated?"

I chuckle and step back to hop up on the center island. "You don't like anyone he brings over," I remind her.

Her eyebrows shoot up as her arms cross over her chest. "You give them the third degree," she reminds me and wags a finger in my direction, "I'm not the only one that thinks they're subpar for our oldest friend."

I hold my hands up and concede. She's right. I mean I'm sure they're perfectly nice women, but they're all wrong for our Lee. He's a jerk, don't get me wrong, but he's a loyal, loveable jerk. He deserves someone just as jerky and loveable.

"Alright, so I'm going to grab some stuff and work in here?" I ask. Sometimes she likes to rock out alone and tonight, I can't tell what kind of mood she's in.

"Sure," she says, turning back to the stove to stir something in a pot. It smells good, whatever it is, but I'm withholding judgment. I hop off our counter and go grab my pack. I shuffle back in and she's sitting at the island reading over a script.

"Same one?" I ask, bumping her shoulder.

She nods. "Yeah, I'm just trying to line up a work schedule over the next few months. I've got two movie offers and Ado called about several shoots."

My brow furrows as I listen to her. Shortly after the premier of East End Girl, which got great reviews and even got a few awards, my girl's been less than enthusiastic about work. Which I don't get. She's always loved her job. So I ask, "Do you want to talk about this now or shelve it until after dinner?"

She runs a hand through her hair and pouts.

"Babe?" I question, pulling her off her stool and into my lap.

She draws her legs up and I wrap my arms around her folded legs and back, securing her position. With her forehead nestled against my neck, she starts, "I dunno. The movie was fun. I still like the modeling thing, but…"

She stops and I think this is one of those times where I'm just supposed to know. I guess I'll take a stab at it. "You didn't like all the attention after the premier, did you?"

She shakes her head. "I just want to do my work. Do we really need people following me into a grocery store or God, when they were outside the hospital when I took mom for her tests? Annie that's not me. I never wanted that. I know we talked about this happening or some of it happening. Just not at the level we saw."

I feel a hot tear leak down my neck and I hold her tighter. I kiss the top of her head and say, "Whatever you decide, baby, we got your back." Calling up a bit of music that I know she loves, not really my thing but that's beside the point. I croon softly in a very bad cockney accent, "Give me your hopes, give me your dreams, give me your conscience and your fears. I'll keep them safe, I'll hold them dear, And I'll believe in you. When you're blind, I'll be your…"

She cuts me off with a giggle. "Please stop. I can't take you ruining one of my favorite songs."

"Hey," I try for hurt, "I can sing my ass off."

"No baby," she says looking up at me, "You really can't, but you're my tone deaf singer so…"

"You have to love me?" I try.

She nods and pecks me on the cheek. Taking that as a signal to let her go, her feet drop to the floor and she begins finishing up dinner. I begin working through the stack of folders I pulled from my pack. Every now and again, she'll offer commentary, but for the most part she focuses on the meal and softly sings along to whatever the mighty iPod selects.

Sooner than I thought, she moves away and begins setting the kitchen table. Glancing up from my screen, I ask, "You want help?"

"Nah, if you continue to work on that, maybe you can do the dishes after dinner?" She looks hopeful.

Smiling, I nod. Like I was going to say no. The good thing is is that I'm almost finished. I quickly finish off the recommendations for my last file and save my work. As I pack away my laptop, I hear the front door open and Lee's voice call out. Before going to greet our oldest friend, I make a mental note to finish up our conversation.

Whatever she wants, that's what we'll do.

* * *

Jill tries to roll off me, but I keep my legs firmly locked around her waist, pulling her flush against me. I should actually finish getting ready for work, but when your wife accosts you as you get out of the shower, sometimes it's better to just go with the flow.

"You're going to be late," she reflects my thoughts back at me.

I squeeze a little more and mumble, "Totally worth it."

She giggles and I smile. We rest in our bedroom, the sounds of our breathing the only thing that can be heard. The visit with Lee and his girlfriend, Tina, went well. Out of everyone that he's brought around, Jill and I agreed after they left we liked her best. What we didn't do was finish our conversation from earlier. "Jill, you know," I start out, what I'm about to say could start an argument, but I go for it anyhow, "if you wanted, you don't have to do anything, right?"

"What?" Her head snaps up from its resting place on my chest. Her eyebrows are knitted together and there's a frown on her lips. All telling signs.

"Well," I back pedal, "If you don't…I mean going back to movies or modeling…Babe, you can do anything you want. No one ever said that this has to be it."

"Oh," she lets out, her face relaxing as I let her roll off me. She moves so that she's lying on her side facing me. "I thought…we're going back to our talk from last night?"

I nod and bring our entwined hands between us, kissing the tips of her fingers.

"What would I do?" She worries her lower lip at the question and I reach out and tuck a strand of her hair behind her ears.

"Whatever. I mean, financially we don't have that worry." I smile then and add, "Thank you for that by the way. But. I mean you could do whatever, seriously. Like there are all these projects around the house that are laying half-finished and I know how much you like to wear that tool belt John got you and play at being Bob Villa. There's always painting. I know you can and I know you like to."

Her face scrunches and she squints at me with this little smirk. "I look damn hot in that tool belt, but my home improvement projects will only last for so long. And what exactly would I do with my paintings?"

"Sell them? Donate them? We could open up an art gallery and showcase your work. Oh, I know," I grin wide and tease, "We could get you a T.V. show and you can be like the hotter version of Bob Ross and teach people to paint happy trees."

She pulls her left hand free and smacks my bare bicep.

"What?" I feign hurt. "You could!"

"You're fucking crazy," she informs me as she rolls away from my grabby hands and says over her shoulder, "You need to finish getting ready and I'll think about it." With that she, flounces into the bathroom leaving me to admire her bare backside before the door shuts.

I roll the opposite direction and land on my feet. Stretching, I feel and hear my back pop back into place. I quickly dress, donning the usual, unspoken uniform of slacks and some blouse with a belt and sensible shoes. I strap my firearm to my side and badge to the front of my hip before wandering into the kitchen to start the coffee. I'm a bitch without it and Jill, bless her, must have made a pot when I was in the shower.

Pulling two mugs from the cupboard, I fix our cups just in time for her to shuffle in dressed in her lounging wear, a faded t-shirt of Nora's and plaid pajama bottoms with socks. I shake my head and mumble, "Press wouldn't call her a lipstick lesbian if they knew what I know."

She kicks out and connects with my bottom for the comment and I laugh. "It's true babe. Admit it. You like to be butch in your down time."

"I like being comfy and if comfy is butch well…I won't cut my hair, but you could definitely talk me into the flannel." She wiggles her eyebrows at me and I shake my head.

"You already have the flannel," I bark out laughing at the look of indignation that crosses her features.

"Ann! Jill!" John's voice booms from the front of the house causing both of our eyebrows to rise collectively.

"Kitchen," I holler back and set my cup down already moving towards our front door.

John doesn't make a habit of popping in unannounced, but when he does…

I round the corner into the front room as he was walking towards me. He's dressed for the weather in a black V-neck sweater and black slacks. He has a file tucked under his arm and in his hands is a tray from Starbucks.

My eyes narrow.

He smiles sheepishly and says, "I tried calling but the house line's down and you didn't answer either of your cells." At my look confusion he explains, "As I was coming in, I saw some moron in a Good Ole Boy Ford took out a telephone poll. Emergency crews are working on it."

"Oh," I say and take the drinks from his hand. "Come on, I was just getting ready to leave."

"Glad I caught you then," he says following behind me.

Jill's face brightens as she sees my partner, then looks at the cups in my hand, and lets out a squeal. "You do love me!" she exclaims and gives John a peck on the cheek.

He blushes a little, which I can't help but find endearing. Those two have a soft spot for each other and it's nice to see.

"Good morning," he greets her and then slaps the folder down on the kitchen counter.

I look at it and then at him. "I take it that I'm not going to like whatever's in that," I wager while pointing at the file.

He shrugs. "It's interesting to say the least." He then turns his attention to my wife and they begin an easy conversation, which is drowned out as I flip the manila folder open and begin reading.

The file contains a printout from our system about a body that was discovered two days ago in St. Clairsville, Ohio. Young woman, Jennifer Denbow, age thirty-one, blonde hair, blue eyes, found dead in her apartment. Cause of death to be determined, but she was found without her face.

My lips form a thin line as I read over the rest of the detail provided, which isn't much. Responding officer, names of witnesses and personal information on the victim.

"I thought we could take Bamby with us and have her to do the post. I made a call up there already and they assured me that the crime scene hasn't been released and the body hasn't been touched. It's still in a cooler at the local hospital," John's voice sounds from behind me.

My jaw clenches at this new piece of information while I silently curse myself and the veritable brick wall that was hit in L.A. a few months ago.

"When do we leave?" I manage as I try to measure my breathing.

"Now, that's why I'm here. Bamby's going to meet us at the airport and I have a chopper on stand-by at the hospital to take us into D.C. for the flight."

"I'll go grab my gear." I stomp out of my kitchen and into my bedroom. For times like this, I've made it a habit of keeping a pre-packed roll-away. It contains a few pairs of generic shirts, pants, socks, underwear, spare toiletries and small arsenal.

I'm about ready to head back out when Jill comes rushing in, stripping along the way. It stops me dead in my tracks and inappropriate or not, I take a moment to ogle as she slips her p.j.'s down her hips and lets them pool on the floor.

"Babe?" I ask.

"I'm coming with," she answers and reaches for a pair of jeans. She slips them on and runs her hand through her hair. "Can you grab me my shoes in the living room while I throw together a bag?"

"Uh, yeah, sure." I spin out of the room and find John sitting in the kitchen.

The look I give him prompts his response, "She's home and I don't know how long we're going to be gone. I invited her. She keeps you together when you're about ready to go postal."

I glare. "I wasn't ready to go postal."

He just shakes his head. "Look, you're pissed. I know you are and you know you are. That's body number three that we know of." He gets up from his seat and lays two hands on my slim shoulders. "L.A. isn't your fault. There was nothing else to go on."

"So more people die because we aren't good enough," I spit quietly.

He nods. "It's the nature of the beast." He smiles at me then, the kind of smile that usually sets me at ease. "We'll get the fucker, Annie," he says with the type of conviction that's lead armies to fight and kill.

I nod and spin away from him to find my wife's shoes.

My week just got a whole helluva lot more interesting, that's for damn sure.

* * *

Somewhere in John's gene pool is a recessive trait for dwarfism, or midget being, or whatever the hell the politically correct term for being a small ass person is. This isn't a new thought, in fact it's a recurring one every time I see Doctor Bamby Malone. She is currently uploading images from the autopsy to our system and chatting with Jill about her new guitar.

The thing with Bamby is that she comes as a set. Her fraternal twin, Doctor Spencer Malone, splits her time between M.I.T. in the physics department and in D.C. with her sister. They are both, five-foot-two-inches tall, on a good day, long chestnut colored hair and bright blue eyes. They have their mothers build, athletic, their fathers personality, charming but assertive, and the height thing is an anomaly 'cause John and Becca both are above average in height.

Besides their vertically challenged stature, the other thing I've not been able to figure out is the names. I have no idea why one was named Bamby and the other Spencer. I'm not sure John will ever tell me or if really he even knows. His wife, Rebecca, returned home in November of Nineteen Ninety with three things, a Congressional Medal of Honor and John's daughters. Becca, like John, served in the U.S. Army under the Special Forces moniker. I don't really know if the Special Forces allow women nor do I care to find out.

Sometimes with my boss and his family, not knowing is better than knowing and the adage that ignorance is bliss is a tried and true statement.

Regardless, Becca returned with two babies and the medal to pin on her chest. As the girls got older another startlingly obvious development occurred, the two were smart, talking in full sentences before the age of two and reading at a second grade level before the age of three. They both went to a special school in England for gifted children that allowed them to graduate high school by the age of fourteen and both obtained their bachelors in their respective fields of study by sixteen. Doctorates followed soon after.

Bamby was brought on board when she turned eighteen to become our department's resident medical examiner and forensics analyst. The girl is a marvel and works with every type of forensic science there is. She's also a lot of fun to be with.

For the past four days in a town close to the West Virginia boarder in Ohio, I've been reminded of this and also slightly shocked at how alike she is to her father. If I thought having one around was a pain in the ass, having two has been an exercise in patience.

When we first arrived, John, Bamby and I were able to actually process the scene in our own way. We were also able to get Bamby in to do the autopsy and she's also been the one to process any labs that needed done.

Today, I sit on a steel stool with John watching Bamby and my wife talk nonstop about music while she gets ready to show us the results of her findings.

Leaning in, John whispers, "You worried?"

I look at him out of the corner of my eye and ask, "About?"

He smirks at me and waggles a finger between his daughter and my wife.

I scoff and role my eyes. "Uh, no. Jill wouldn't and while I can't be too sure of that daughter of yours. Your daughter's girlfriend would totally kick some ass."

John scratches the three day old stubble on his chin and rubs at the dark circles under his eyes. He looks like I feel and I know I probably don't look too much better. "You're right," he concedes and cracks a grin. "Why is it I'm surrounded by a bunch of lesbians? I mean is that normal? Is it only me? There's you and Jill and Bamby and Spencer."

I raise an eyebrow at the question and ask my own, "Does it bother you?"

His mouth screws to the side and then a full blown, cheesy grin makes its way on to his face. "Nope. I just think that maybe I've got a sign on my back, like "friends with gays" or somethin'."

I shake my head at the joke and pat him soothingly on the back. "Well at least you have others to check out girls with."

"Please, you're no fun to go drinking with, uh, no way in hell with either of my daughters, I'd have to kill someone and besides, you know how Becca gets, she's not the jealous type, but…"

I bob my head. "She'd use your nuts as a change purse?"

"Exactly," he agrees.

"Are you two done?" Bamby asks as she looks up from the monitor. "And F.Y.I. that conversation you two were having…never, ever have it around me again."

"Sweetheart," John tries.

"No, dad, seriously. Now let's focus on the details of the three cases, since this is the first time I've had a chance to actually dig in and not only have a body, but a crime scene to work with." She waits for the projector to boot up before she begins.

The first image on the screen is a three-way view of the three victims' faces. The images aren't that great and since they are being displayed on an off white wall in the basement of a hospital, it makes it just that much worse.

"All right, so the third victim's injuries are consistent with the previous two victims. There are disparities, but I'm confident enough to say that the person that made the cuts on the first victim is the same in the second and the third." She directs our attention with a laser pointer and continues, "The first vic's face was too far gone for me to be able to really determine much of anything, but the M.E. that conducted the post wasn't a total waste. Not as thorough as I'd have liked but, that's neither here nor there. What I want to direct your attention to are the markings along the hairline. There were several start and stop points, as you can see here."

My eyes skirt to where's she's pointing and I can see several of the cuts she's talking about.

"Now, in the second victim, this is a lot cleaner, except for here right in front of the left ear. I can give conjecture as to why there's another starting point, but there is. In this new victim, There's nothing indicating any hesitation." She sniffs and brings up another set of photos that look to be magnifications of the wounds. "This was also interesting, the skin, I can say with confidence in victims two and three, of the face was removed in pieces. Strips were taken off."

I'm sorry, eh? "Come again," is what I say. I glance at Jill. She has her nose buried in that script and her iPod's on. I can thank her later for not wanting to hear this.

"Wait, I want you two to listen and then ask when I'm finished." Bamby goes back to her slide show and carries on, "Since I wasn't able to really look at the first two victims, I can't be one-hundred percent certain, but I do know that our victim here was kept alive during the entire process. Between the blood loss, the way the face was beginning to heal starting in a left to right fashion. All of the wound patterns indicate that she was alive as your unsub removed everything from the hypodermis and above."

John and I look at each other and are about to ask a question, but Bamby holds up her finger.

"There's more. Since the victim was alive, I needed to run some tox screenings. I really don't care who you are, if you're alive while someone's flaying the skin off your face, it's going to be an issue. So, not only were they alive, but the unsub had them awake. The lab results indicate that at least vic three was potentially awake for a minimum of three days."

She hits the keyboard a few times and several labs pop up. "If you look here and here, there are two things you need to be aware of; one is the near absent levels of electrolytes and then the staggering amount of epinephrine in the blood post mortem. The decrease in electrolytes, such as sodium levels, potassium, hydrogen carbonate and hydrogen phosphate, is one thing associated with sleep deprivation. It's common, but with epinephrine the normal resting concentrations in the blood are around ten nano-grams per liter. That will change due to activity. In sports, they've seen that number raise to more than fifty times the amount and in certain medical conditions it can go as high as ten thousand to a hundred thousand nano-grams per liter."

She points to the graph and says, "Vic three was pushing two-point-oh-seven grams per liter. That's lethal or near lethal." She lets that sink in before dropping the last bomb, "The one thing that we can be thankful of or well, okay, so it's so totally a subjective view, but the unsub did partially anesthetize the victim with benzoylmethylecgonine."

John and I look again at each other and ask at the same time, "They are using cocaine to curb the pain?"

Bamby nods and swallows. "I've still got a bit of work to do and I'm waiting on the labs in L.A. to get back to me, but I'd bet we could find a similar pattern."

"So," John hops up off his seat and begins his pace, "Let me get this straight. Our Unidentified Subject takes the victim, keeps them alive for a few days doped up on coke and adrenaline, deprives them of sleep and then takes off their face, strip by strip?"

His daughter bobs her head, causing both John and I to slide our hands down our face and groan.

"Is there anything else?" John asks, pushing back the jacket he has on to expose the gun at his hip.

"Not really, I'm waiting on few things from the other two cities, but I can back pretty much everything else up with just this one case," Bamby answers and begins to shut the projector off.

His lips are a thin line of frustration as he turns to me. "Ann, what can you tell me?"

I scratch and rub my earlobe before deciding on an answer. "I don't know."

"Bullshit. Tell me what you're thinking," he snaps and Bamby shoots her father a look.

Swallowing, I stand and mirror his posture. "We both know this doesn't fit with our standardized list of profiles. If we assume that all three bodies are the work of the same unsub then we know this, they're nomadic, they're highly skilled with a blade and women between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-five strike the fuckers fancy."

"Alright," he steps up into my personal space. Our noses nearly touch as he jabs me on the temple with his index finger. "That's your head, Ann. Fuck your head right now. I need to know what your gut's telling you about them. I'd trust your instincts to keep me and my family alive any day of the week."

"Male, more than likely white, an educated guess pits them with some type of medical background," I spit and step back. I spin around and reach for the stack of glossies in my bag. "The killer's not only controlled, but meticulous, organized. He's not crazy, at least in the clinical sense. He's patient. That much we know. He blends with people easily. Ten to one, he's not only cased the vics, but the vics knew him, probably trusted him on some level. Given the second killing, with no signs of a struggle, I'd either suspect that he got in easily and in to a position to subdue the vic without her putting up a fight. Also, these aren't their firsts. This is the killer finding his groove. There are more bodies out there. We need to broaden our searches, see if we can find his first kill." I pull the photos free and spread them out, observing them with a new eye.

"What else?" John presses.

I hesitate before answering, "Him taking the face means a lot. Obviously. Why keep them alive like that, but I don't think the face is the end goal. It's a message of some sort. The cocaine is also something that we need to look at. Travel patterns are another. The Midwest to California to Ohio. The way that he places the bodies after he's done with them, it's respectful. He's saying something there too." My mind's eye searches frantically over the crime scenes searching for details I could have missed. Details that seem insignificant when looking at a body, but later on could make or break a case.

I shake my head coming up with nothing.

John nods and says, "Okay, that's a start. Lucy and Travis will be back with us on Saturday. They finished their assignment on Tuesday, but I needed to give them a few days to decompress. We have a choice. We can stay here and try to work the case or we take what we have and go back to Quantico."

The three of us look each other over and make a decision. I'd rather be at home going through everything any way.

* * *

**Ch. 3 – And Games**

The pounding behind my right eye picks up tempo, causing me to use the tips of my fingers to add some pressure to the top of my closed eyelid. I don't know if it's the heat, the stress, the frustration or my lack of sleep. The argument for the headache could also be that the ridge of my right brow and cheekbone are still feeling the after effects of the two-by-four to the face I took three days ago.

Generally, my line of work revolves around filling out paperwork, sending out analysis on cases or running an investigation, but those are few and far between on an annual basis. There are exceptions to everyone's general work load and sometimes, my life resembles a John Patterson novel.

Sometimes, it can be a little fun, but others like three days ago when John and I ran down our suspect on a construction site in Knoxville, Tennessee, I got to come home to my model wife with a busted face. The one thing I will say is that with a bit of therapy, Jill has learned to handle my job and she handled my face well. She only let a few tears slip.

Finally, I open my eyes and go back to what has become something less than an obsession, but more than a hobby. I feel the sweat trickle down the back of my neck to trail down my spine. It really does nothing to cool me off. If maintenance could get their act together and fix the busted A.C. unit, that would be fucking swell. I came in blue jeans and a black t-shirt. I'm thinking that a bikini top and sarong would be better than standing here in my makeshift case room sweating my ass off.

Sighing, I mumble, "Fuck it," and strip off my t-shirt, to leave me in a white tank top. I use the t-shirt to mop the back of my neck and toss it on the small table to my right. The room I'm in isn't much more than a closet in my office building, but I've converted it to what John likes to call my box. The only furniture is a small table, to my right there is a white board, directly in front of me a tack board and to my left the table that holds a docking station for my laptop.

When we're having trouble on a case and the pieces aren't coming together, I bring the case in here and put it up. The case I've got up here is one that John doesn't want to take up too much time with given the scraps of information that we have to go on. If I were him I'd make the same call, but thankfully, I'm not. He's the one required to put up with my ornery ass.

Three crime scenes stare back at me. Margaret, Maria and Jennifer are all faceless in the crime scene photos, but I always make it a point to tack up a photo of who they were before they became a victim. Margaret smiles with her family, Maria is glowing in an off white wedding dress and Jennifer has her arms wrapped around the waist of her six-year-old son. My jaw clenches and I go back to the white board that's full of notes.

"Ann," I turn my head to see Lucy resting inside the doorway. Her eyebrow is raised and her arms rest casually over her chest.

I only offer her a grunt for recognition and go back to staring at my notes. I can't shake the feeling that I'm missing something. There is some piece of this puzzle that isn't locking into place or I'm missing it entirely.

"You know," she says stepping up behind me to look over my shoulder, "That if I find you in here anymore, I'm going to start to worry."

"Yeah well, when I figure out what I'm missing I'll won't be in here. I'll be chasing this fucker down so don't worry," I snip.

"Ann," she says softly, placing her hand on my shoulder.

Finally, I turn to face her and am taken aback by the concern I see in her eyes. I relent and offer a tight smile. "It's been nearly nine months, our last body was two months ago. Given the time between bodies, I don't think I have much time to break this."

She nods. Lucy Walker is probably one of my most favorite persons. A small woman, she stands at five-foot-four, a hundred-ten pounds soaking wet with shoulder length red hair and grey eyes. She's smart, she's a smartass and she can usually get me to laugh when it's the last thing that I want to do. She also doesn't give me shit any more than I need it. She must know I don't need it right now. Instead of pressing me, she steps back and rests against the table, looking at the whiteboard with me.

"I know you guys searched for similar cases, but what were the search parameters?" she asks before chewing on the nail of her left thumb.

"We were concentrating on missing flesh," I answer her and rest my hands on my hips.

"Pull anything good?" she mumbles around her thumb.

"Nothing that struck me or John."

"So either the cases haven't been logged or we widen our search," Lucy reasons.

I bite my lip and shake my head.

"What do you mean no?" I can hear the rebuke and I'm not entirely sure what to do about it or how to answer.

I try the truth, "It's not like I don't think it'll hurt, but Luce, I think the answers are here. I just can't…"

"You're too close," she cuts me off. I turn to glare. "Just wait a sec before you bite my head off." Her hand is held up in front of her asking for patience. "You've been looking at these same photos for months. You just came back from being knocked around by a psycho with a sweet tooth for ramming pieces of wood where no pieces of wood should go. Since you've been back, the time you've been at work has been spent in here. Also, Jill's not above calling one of us to find out why you've been coming home so late and leaving so early."

I purse my lips.

"So, since you've been spending the last sixty hours out of seventy-two here, I think you need to take a step back." Her arms go across her chest again and she dares me to deny her evidence.

"How do you know where I've been the past three days?" I retort.

"Travis gave me the access logs for reconciliation. You know the Bureau and the D.O.D. hates when we log too much time." She smirks and follows up with, "Besides, I have eyes. I can see. Which right now, is more than I can say for John, because once he signs off on the logs and sees the amount of time you've been here, he's going to go ape shit."

I send her a scowl. She's right, John will go ape shit. He likes to be here the most and it messes with his work ethic if his staff is here more than he is.

Luce rolls her eyes at me and teases, "And it also makes him worry."

"How did you…" I try to ask.

"Please, that bastard hates it when we work more than he does and he hates to worry. He's also really bad at worrying. My mother doesn't nag that much." She pushes off the desk, tossing me my shirt as she rights herself. "Do us all a favor because you look like shit and I don't need Jill down here in our shit, smacking John around."

"Hey, she's only done that once," I defend my wife.

Lucy shakes her head. "She's smacked him once and decked him once. Or are we forgetting you're stint as bait and being dragged off to the mid-Atlantic?"

"Oh, yeah, well, uhm," I try, but nothing really comes out. My wife's a trip and a third.

"So, go home, spend some quality time with her and come back tomorrow when you're head's not firmly planted up your ass and we'll sit down together."

"That you're best offer?" I joke with her and slip the shirt on over my head.

She nods firmly and right before my eyes, has my keys dangling in front of them. "I'll shut this down. Why don't you go," she stops and looks at her watch. Cocking her head to the side, she holds up three fingers and I watch as they lower one by one.

As the last finger folds into her palm, I hear, "Ann, let's go."

My eyes grow large and I poke my head out of the closet. Jill is standing down the hall smiling at me. Rolling my eyes, I turn to a smirking Lucy, snatch my keys away from her and threaten, "Tomorrow, I'm kicking your ass."

"Come on, Ann. It's fucking hot in here," Jill pouts and I jog down the hall. She stops me and pulls me to her. Her left index finger reaches out and gently traces over my battered cheek and under my eyes. "We owe Lucy one." She kisses me gently and takes my hand, leading me out into the muggy June weather of Virginia.

* * *

I wake up to the smell of coffee and frying bacon. This is odd. This is odd for several reasons. The first being that it's only seven o'clock in the morning. The second being that Jill is still by my side, well actually I'm by hers. When she came and picked me up yesterday, I was the recipient of a very short ass chewing, which was merciful especially for her, and then she pretty much just took care of me the rest of the night. It was one of the sweetest nights in recent memory.

I'm still curled up in her arms, our legs a mass of limbs and I can't tell where she begins and I end. She's snoring a little, which I find cute. Others may find it obnoxious or annoying; I say it's their loss. With her in my arms there's still the smell of coffee and frying bacon. Something's rotten in the House of Flemming.

As gently as possible, I extract myself from my wife, taking extra care to not jostle her too much. It's early and she hates getting up early. At some point I was stripped of my clothing. I stand in the middle of my bedroom clad only in a tank top and bikini briefs. There are several options to go with. I mean not many ax murders cook their next victims bacon or brew them coffee, but then again, you never know.

Sociopaths and their cousins, psychopaths, aren't known for their predictability which is somewhat funny because I've been able to predict a sociopath's behavior on more than one occasion.

Internal debate over, I find a t-shirt and my jeans from yesterday folded on the recliner by our bedroom window. Well actually it's a bank of windows that are generally covered unless it's raining outside and the curtains get opened to give us an unobstructed view of the rolling hills and woods that surround our home. My gun is where it's supposed to be, stashed in a lock box sitting on top of my dresser. I love this box, no codes, no combination, just a quick scan of my left pinky or Jill's.

Not bothering with socks, I pad down the hallway as quietly as possible. I hear a soft humming in the kitchen and try to discern who in the fuck is in my kitchen at seven in the damn morning, humming to...cocking my head to the side I listen and hear Martha and the Vandella's sing about some boy...Linda Ness, Jill's mom.

Christ in platforms and a wedding dress what the fuck?

Sighing, I depress my annoyance and tuck my gun away, slipping it between the small of my back and waist of my jeans. It's not the safest place for it, but the jeans are tight enough and the safety's on. I run a hand through my disheveled, longer than I like it hair, and then enter the kitchen.

She doesn't hear or see me, so I prop myself up in the arch way and watch her move around the kitchen. There are things about Jill's mom that amaze me. Her and Jill are the same height, they have the same brunette hair, but Linda has silver running through it. The same beautiful and intriguing brown eyes. Jill however lacks a few things that her mother inherited, one is the ability to actually cook and the second is a love for crafts and gardening.

I'm kinda bummed about the cooking thing, but thank God my wife hates crafts and gardening.

Linda finally spins around from the stove and stops dead in her tracks. The frying pan she's holding goes crashing to the floor, the spatula gets tossed over her head and she lets out the wildest shriek I've ever heard.

I laugh. Full on double over, tears streaming from my eyes laugh as soon as Linda finishes shrieking.

"For gosh shakes, Ann, what were you thinking? You just don't sneak up on people like that," she chides me. She sounds more miffed than anything else. My guess is she's also embarrassed. Her hands go to her hips and she stands much like Jill does when I'm getting an earful. I giggle some more, despite the protests from my busted cheek.

When I finally right myself, her jaw drops and she's by my side instantly, "Oh, dear, Jill said you got hurt at work. I didn't think it was anything that bad. Come on. Sit down and let me take a look." And there's the Linda I know. The woman can go from annoyed to motherly in point-oh-three seconds.

"Linda, really, it's fine. Looks way worse than it feels," I try to brush off her concern. I mean it's sweet and all, but there are exactly two people on this planet that I will let fuss over me. One I'm married to and the other's in New Orleans with her life partner. Nora and I are even on the same page about getting fussed over. It usually just pisses us off.

Linda must see it because she backs off pretty quick. "Well, if you need anything Ann…" she lets the rest trail off. It's an unspoken rule actually. Linda and I were always cool. I was always reminded of that when we would sit in the Ness' backyard, smoking and talking while Jill slept. I was the second daughter Linda never got and she was like the mother I wished for instead of the one that never bothered with me.

We bonded on Saturday mornings and she was actually the first person I came out to. She also even offered to have me live with them after I was kicked out of my uncle's house. I think before Lee, she knew Jill and I were more than just friends or supposed to be more than just friends. Linda never batted an eyelash nor gave one derogatory remark. When Jill and I told her about us, she just clucked her tongue, smacked Jill upside the head and asked, "What in the hell took you two so long? I was hoping for grandbabies sooner rather than later."

The remark floored Jill. Her family's reaction was one of her biggest hang ups with us and why it took her so long to allow us to be together. Her family is Southern Baptist. They are the fire and brimstone loving types that like to whap you on the head with their righteousness. Jill never was one to agree with it, she's an out and proud Agnostic, but her family's reaction was of serious concern.

I'm still not sure why she worried. Linda is very cool and Jill's dad, John, shrugged and smiled, intoning how nice it was.

"I know," I tell her softly, "thanks. But I have a couple of questions, one, why are you here and two, why are you here and cooking breakfast?"

She pats the uninjured side of my face and smiles fondly at me. It's actually the way you would a clueless child and says, "Jill called me after you fell asleep. I thought I'd surprise you two and then skedaddle, but you ruined it."

"Oh," I manage before melting just a little. I do love Linda, not as much as I love her daughter, but I feel that it's a very similar love to what a child should feel towards their mom.

"So, since you ruined the surprise, grab a rag and help me clean this up," she orders.

I chuckle but do as asked. As I stand from the stool, I feel my gun start to slip down the small of my back. Unthinking, I remove it and place it on the kitchen island and start cleaning up.

"There better be a good fucking reason I'm awake," Jill grumbles. I peek up from my spot kneeling behind the island cleaning up bacon grease. She's wearing her robe; it's open to expose her body. Underneath the robe, she's only wearing her underwear which is a little skimpier than mine and a camisole.

My wife shuffles in the kitchen, rubbing her eyes from under her glasses. She hasn't seen her mother yet. Jill hates cussing in front of her mom. This is funny, because Jill can keep up with the most seasoned sailor on shore leave in expletives per sentence any day of the week.

"Jillian Leigh Ness," her mother barks, "Your home or not, I will not stand here and listen to that kind of talk."

I watch as her hand drops and her head snaps up. I smirk at the fish mouth and her ridged back.

"G'morning, babe," I sing song from my position.

Her eyes narrow at me briefly, but then quickly go to her mother. "Sorry, mama," she says contritely. "I didn't know you were here." Her face scrunches for a second before she asks, "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to be a nice mother, but that's shot to hell in a hand basket. I swear you two ruin all my fun," she chirps and turns back to the eggs in the skillet.

Jill just shakes her head and shuffles over to me. I smile up at her. She grabs my hand and pulls me up, grabbing on to my hips. I kiss her gently. She doesn't pull back though. Instead, she deepens the kiss before I try to pull away.

A loud cough separates us and Linda says, "I don't mind you two doing that as long as it eventually leads to some grandchildren. And Jill, tie the robe or go put some clothes on. I've seen that naked rear end enough and I don't need the only other cook in the family getting distracted by your sleepwear."

I groan. Jill giggles.

It's going to be one of them days. As Jill complies with her mother's request and scurries off to the bedroom, I finish my clean up and start to help with breakfast. The thoughts of the case in my closet pushed to the back of my mind. I need a morning like this.

* * *

And all together now, for the millionth time that day, I sigh. It's starting to get on my nerves. I've had cases before that were frustrating. They were hard and didn't make sense, but there was always a lose thread to be found. That thread would unravel the case or at least point to the right knot so that I could start untangling the mess that was presented to me.

At least that's how it usually works, but with these cases, John's not so amusingly dubbed to "The No Profile" cases, there's nothing. I never had access to the scenes first, so preserving any forensic evidence is a joke. John and I spent time in each area going through the neighborhoods, talking to any potential witnesses and no one has seen a thing or if they do they don't remember. With a fairly open work load, I've gone back to going over the individual murders. Nothing pings; nothing even remotely sticks out at me. John's betting the proverbial farm on my psychological profile of our unsub. So far I've come up with a text book profile that any newbie out of Quantico's Behavioral Training Unit could gather.

By the time I managed to get away from Jill. Linda left around eight this morning and Jill decided to make the most of our carbed up state and force me to go on a five mile run around the neighborhood. Lucy was in by the time I hit my desk. For the past four hours, she and I have been widening our searches. We started with race and age of the victim that netted more hits in our system than I care to vocalize. Once we got those, we began filtering out types of homicides. Anything with a sexual tilt, shootings or beatings and bludgeonings were removed. That helped a little. Our concentration was on stabbings and/or where the cause of death was indeterminate but a knife or sharp instrument was used. The filters brought our total down to around a less than desirable seven-hundred-sixty-three homicides.

We may get through them before I retire. Maybe. I think Travis started a pool with his friends over in Counterintelligence as to when we'll get done. John's supposed to be back in the office today. He was out yesterday and half of today mucking about in Washington. Him in D.C. always makes me nervous.

On the upside to a wonderful morning, I came into a fully functional air-conditioned office and I guess I'm supposed to be counting my blessings instead of bitching about the pile of work that I've just given myself. I take a sip of my luke warm coffee and mark off case four of my half of the seven-sixty-three. I pick my pen up and in a habit that developed somewhere along the way, I begin twirling it between my fingers.

My eyes look past Lucy and stay glued, but unfocused, on a patch of wall behind her. I have to think I'm approaching these cases from the wrong angle. The classic definition of insanity is doing the same thing, the same way, repeatedly and expecting different results. So maybe it's not the case and the little bit we have, but the way I'm looking at it.

The air conditioning kicks on and I drop my pen to lean forward and rest my head on my upturned hand. My right thumb and pointer finger press into my lips as I stare blankly at my computer screen. If I strip away what I know, what do the scenes tell me individually?

The victims, at least in death, the crime scenes were very, very similar. Individually the bodies were placed in a respectful way. All of the victims were found fully clothed with no signs of sexual assault. Add to that, all three were put on display. Each body posed in a comparable fashion. Bamby feels confident enough in her findings to say that they were kept awake during the removal of their face, so I'll say it's a damn good bet that's what happened.

The specifics of the case, I need to stay focused. Sometimes that can be hard when there are too many moving pieces. I shake it off and begin outlining ideas in my note book. The last two known victims were found in their residence. Someplace that was going to get the bodies discovered easily. Yet, the first known, was placed out of the way, in the woods around common hunting territory.

A small shock courses up my spine causing me to sit up straighter. My instinct tells me that that's an important detail.

But why? What would it tell us?

It could tell us a myriad of things like Margret was the first kill, the unsub also placed her body in a position to be found easily. They want their work discovered. It could also tell us that at least with the first victim, our unsub was not comfortable using the home…

Wait…

It's at this moment, where I'm on the brink and I feel my blood pumping through me that I love my job more than anything. That's the fucking key…or at least an arrow. It's been staring us right in the face for months. So glaringly obvious that a rookie in the smallest town in America would have been able to point it out to us. To me.

I mean given the time lapse and the fact the only crime scene we were able to walk was the last one, all of us have thought way to linearly about these cases. I want to beat my head off the desk. If John were here I'd ask that he hit me out of sheer stupidity. It almost makes me want to give him back the t-shirt he got me for my birthday our first year as partners. It's a black V-neck that has "I'm a freakin' genius" in bold white print.

I push back from my desk and startle Lucy. She looks up from her own desk and cocks an eyebrow at me. Ignoring her looks, I begin to pace the length of our small office. My fingers drum on my hips as I walk back and forth.

It's the murder scene. We've been taking it for granted that the murder scene and the crime scene are one in the same, but all of these, except maybe the first, smack of the bodies being positioned, put on display. Those two, Sheridan and Denbow are not true crime scenes; they're nothing more than displays.

Granted I don't have any evidence to back my assertions, but then I don't have any evidence to indicate that I'm wrong either. The only thing I have to go on is my gut. It's going to have to be good enough. "Lucy, we're stupid," are the first words out of my mouth. "I need you to start calling the three different departments and see if they came up with anything to indicate the murder scene was also the kill site. If they did, we need to know. If it wasn't than I need to know who followed up with that lead."

"Uh, Ann, usually I'm pretty good about keeping up with you, but you wanna help a sister out and tell me what the flying fuck you're rambling about?" Lucy rocks back in her seat and waits.

I shake my head and go over to the three main photos that showcase each body on display perfectly. "We're fucking stupid. Look at these; tell me what you think? Tell me what our unsub is saying here?"

She cocks her head to the side and begins to study the pictures like she's never seen them before. Slowly, my words sink in and her eyes grow large. "Well shit," is all she manages before our office door swings open and John comes bustling through.

He's red faced and the vein in his neck is pumping his blood a little too quickly for my liking. Not noticing the appearance of my partner, Lucy bounces in her seat a little and says, "Ann may have a lead for us on our No Profile Cases. It's at least a start." She then looks up from studying the images to take in John. "Uh, okay, who do we have to kill?" My mouth pinches at the question.

Sometimes, when things get really crazy that question isn't a joke. It's a reality that none of us likes, but live with.

"Get your shit," he clips, "We've got a scene in Stafford."

I look him over and ask, "John, what scene? More words are helpful, you know."

"Both of you, get it together and I'll go over more once we get there, but to put it in the most succinct terms, our boy, No Profile, has left us a little present. This time a fuck lot closer to where I rest my head."

That's all it takes for us to be out the door and to Apollo, trusting that my baby will get us there in short order.

* * *

Stafford like most of the other communities in the area aren't sleepy little hubs of domesticity. They're a regular town, full of people itching to do things more with the time they have. Being this close to the nation's capital doesn't hurt either. For the truly masochistic, they will commute from here to D.C. or even into Richmond for work. It's a nice little town. Not too far from John's home actually, but then again, he likes to have space and lives in the middle of nowhere.

On the ride over I ask John, "How do we know?"

Taking a turn on the I-95, pretty tight, he steadies himself with a hand on the dashboard and says, "Got an interesting call from a desk jockey with the state police."

I swerve around a semi-truck and BMW that's either deaf and blind or just plain stupid. Part of the retrofitting that John did was install, flashers and sirens in Apollo for times like this or when I get the occasional urge to drive around the country to various crime scenes. It doesn't happen all that often. The sirens on my baby are going and with the music playing in the car, Gun 'n' Roses, my two coworkers are wearing a tiny smirk.

What can I say, sometimes starting your day off with a little Axel Rose screaming about the jungle is fun.

I by-pass another semi and see the signs to Stafford. Usually the drive here will take anywhere from twenty to thirty minutes south of Quantico Station. Today, on a clear late summer afternoon, it takes me around twelve and a half minutes to exit the highway. Following John's directions, we head west and down a two lane county road to a development not far from one of the main shopping areas in town.

Hanging a left in the division and another left onto a side street, I see two police cruisers and an F.B.I. crime scene van parked at one of the houses at the end of the cul-de-sac. I pull in behind a black and white and kill the engine. John and Lucy are out before me as I turn off the sirens and lights. Popping the trunk, I meet them at the back of Apollo and reach for one of the three duffle bags that stay in the trunk.

I hand John and Luce their own set of latex gloves, booties, and hair cap. I take a set for myself along with a digital camera and follow my two friends under the crime scene tape. We sign the log a junior agent is keeping at the front door. As I enter there is a set of things to notice. First is that there are only two other people in the house that I can see besides myself, John and Lucy.

Their voices are audible from the entry way. The house isn't too large, single story, two bedroom single family home. Stepping into the home, there is a modest living room to my left, to my right a dining room that opens up to the kitchen. Directly in front of us is a hallway where I see three doors, all of which are open. The voices are coming from the last door on the left.

I lead the way down the hall after slipping the booties on over my shoes. Before I hit the door, I hear, "Travis, I swear to every deity that I can name off the top of my head, if you touch that envelope, I'm going to cut off your nuts and feed them to my dog."

I hear a small eep from our coworker and Bamby follow up her threat with, "Now get the hell over hear and help me with the body. I want her brought in the body bag with bed linens. All of them."

I quit eavesdropping to step into the bedroom. Two sets of eyes look up from their task of photographing and marking the position of the body. I scan the room first, taking in the position of the corpse and everything that is visible. The body, female, brunette, just like Maria Sheridan, just like the others, this victim is prone, with her hands clasped together resting on her hips. The facial skin is missing, leaving the muscles underneath exposed.

The placement of the body is always the first thing I notice. It is quickly followed by its condition and positioning. After the body and area have been noted, I notice a plain white envelope that rests on the dresser directly across from me. It sits against the far wall of the bedroom and on the front, there is script, I can't read it, but I can tell that it's clear and neat. I nod at Bamby and Travis and figure this must be the envelope she was threatening him over. I ask, "Do I want to know or are we free to investigate that item on the dresser without threat of missing parts?"

Bamby's eyes skirt mine and she mumbles, "It's for you anyhow."

Huh?

"Uh, Ann," John says behind me, "Let me go look at it." I feel him behind me then I see him as he comes around and walks into the room like he walks into every other place, like he owns it. "Did you photograph this?" he asks, stepping in front of the dresser.

"Yeah," Travis answers. "Placement has been photographed. The responding officer said he didn't touch it. Just dialed the number."

John nods and plucks the envelope off the top. Unable to resist, I walk up behind him and step to his right. He looks down at me and shows me the front of the envelope. In clear, distinct script is my name, Special Agent Ann Flemming, along with a general number to a New York, F.B.I. exchange. The number I recognize as one that was set up a few years ago as part of a task force. The general number was supposed to connect you to the Quantico switch board, the calls would have been screened and not pushed through my direct line unless they either answered a set of questions or by passed with a security code.

The hair rises on the back of my neck. I fucking hate this.

"Ann," John says softly, "Do you…"

I nod and take the offered envelope. I turn it over and find the letter unsealed. Instead the flap is tucked inside to secure it closed. Pulling the flap free, I take a peek inside and only find a folded piece of stationary. I look at John and he shrugs. All right then. Fuck it. I pull the paper free and lay the empty envelope down.

Unfolding the paper, I hold it so that John and I can read it together.

_ Dear Special Agent Flemming, _

_ Given the obtuse nature of those that pepper your profession, Mrs. Barbara Seevers graciously extended her willingness to help, by allowing me to leave you this gift. I hope you find in her death the answers she sacrificed herself for. _

_-"All great things must first wear terrifying and monstrous __**masks**__ in order to inscribe themselves on the hearts of humanity."_

_ May your travels treat you and your loved ones well._

"Is that a threat?" I ask.

It's hard to hear John over the ringing in my ears, but I do as he says, "It's pretty fucking close." He presses an evidence bag into my hand and I slip the letter and the envelope inside, marking the date and time to start the chain of evidence that procedure dictates.

"Okay." It's not really the first time some freak's threatened me. In fact, it's standard procedure whenever I seem to threaten them. "Bamby, what have you got for us?" My voice is surprisingly steady and calm as I hand off the evidence to Lucy who is standing behind me.

"Right now, it's just like Denbow. The body isn't cold. Preliminary time of death is going to put us inside three to maybe five hours," she answers.

I nod.

"John, how do you want to do this?" I ask resting my hands my hips.

"We'll start from the back of the house, probably the basement and work our way up. Grab a kit and we can go." I look him over quickly, the tense set of his jaw and shoulders belie his tone which is calm and even. "Bamby, Lucy and Travis, I want the bedroom gone over with a fine tooth comb. This is the first fresh crime scene we've got on this. I want every nook, cranny and bed-fucking-bug sucked up into a vacuum bag to be analyzed at our labs. Ann, let's go."

I watch John's military training kick in as he pivots on his left foot, doing an about face to stride from the room. I offer a nod to my colleagues and chase after my partner.

I guess it's time to have some fun.

* * *

**Ch. 4 – Alignment to Cry**

Closing my eyes, I link my fingers together, push them over my head and stretch backwards. There's a succession of pops that start in my cracked knuckles down to my wrists, elbows, shoulders and ends somewhere towards the middle of my spinal column. It feels fucking fantastic. It's been a long day and an even longer evening. With the crime scene back in Stafford and the hours that we spent going over the scene, it's late even by hooker standards. All the johns have gone away and all the pimps have collected their money. I figure that if even the pimps and hookers are asleep at this hour, I should be allowed to too.

Looking around the lab where we've duplicated and tacked up case information I can clearly see that that isn't even in the ball park of happening. We came back from the house at about two this morning. So far, Travis and Bamby have gotten through the bottom linens on the bed, Lucy's been processing samples taken from the body and hasn't peeked out from the back three rooms for the last four hours.

We think that she's still alive and uninjured. If she's not, we'll get to the smell eventually. We think. At least that's what John says and right now, considering the hour of the night and the amount of mind numbing procedural bullshit that needs to be gone through, if she's not okay, I'll buy her a cookie.

"So what do you think of the neighbors?" John asks me, not looking up from the paper he has in his hand. I glance up from my computer and shrug.

"It's the same. No one saw anything which to me is fucking stupid. I'm not home lots, but when something seems off, I notice it. When my neighbor hasn't come or gone in a few days, I fucking notice."

This gets my partner's attention and a wide eyed look. I won't comment on his smirk. "Okay, a few things, one who the hell pissed in your muddy coffee, two, it shouldn't shock you, it's been the same in the other cities and three, you, Ann, notice every-damn-thing. You never comment on a lot of it, but you do, so you can't use your experience as a basis for comparison. You're like fucking eagle eyes with a side of spooky intuition that in all honesty, creeps me out sometimes."

I raise my eyebrow at this. "I'm not that bad."

He stops my protest and goes back to the original question, "So interviews?"

I accept the topic change and amend my early statement, "Standard. There were a few houses where no one was home. We should go back this morning at some point and see if we can get someone."

He nods at this and spins around to the whiteboard that's a permanent fixture in the lab. We don't do a lot of work down here, but this is where a lot of the case is being processed and he and I both, by unspoken agreement, want to be down here.

"Are we surprised that there was nothing pulled at the house?" His chair swivels and he spins towards me, thick arms folded across a broad chest. "I'd like to know how the fucker doesn't transfer any evidence. I mean everyone leaves behind trace evidence, it's damn near impossible not to."

"Not entirely," I argue, "We've had a few cases that presented like it was performed in a surgical suite with everyone vacuumed sealed except for the vic."

"True, but they were nearly. Didn't Edming wear a full body suit? And the other one, uh…" he finger snaps a few times before the name comes to him, "Filicovik, the fucker was bald from head to toe."

I snort. Alcender Filicovik was the closest thing to a self-made albino if there ever was one. He never went out during the day; he shaved obsessively twice a day. Everything from the top of his head to the tops of his toes. He also liked to shave and oil his victims up while he violated them in every orifice available.

He was a peach that man.

Victor Edming wasn't as crazy. He just likes to kill people, well he did, the state of Virginia now has him on his third appeal and hopefully he'll be getting a needle sometime soon. I like those types. They're not very bright, but determined. They actually make my days easier. There's no second guessing or guess work, it's all very linear.

"Also, while you guys were working on securing the body, I ran a sample of the letter and a digital image over to a friend at the C.I.A. I want to get an analysis as soon as possible," he explains as I hold up the evidence bag with my letter in it. A small piece of the corner of the letter and the envelope gone.

"McKenna gonna get it back to us today?" I ask.

John shrugs. "Considering I woke her up, she may have it back to me by lunch time."

"You didn't?" I ask incredulously. I swear his one track mind on things is astounding. It doesn't matter who he annoys to get it done, if he wants it done, then everything else pretty much gets shoved aside until that thing, whatever that thing maybe, is complete. It's a fault and an advantage for him. I'm pretty sure that if not for that one determined streak he has, he would be dead. My partner's way too stubborn to die.

"It's her job right? Well, she now has work to do. What good is her job, if she doesn't have work," he tries to reason.

"Dude, we got back here and you disappeared at three this morning. I'd rip your face off if you woke me up for a hand writing analysis which will yield dick in the way of useful information. I also think that the paper's going to come back a dead end. It felt like standard stock."

"Can't hurt to double check," he grins at me and I roll my eyes.

Him and his stupid smile. That thing's probably saved his life once or twice too. It's really not that fair.

"Hey, kiddo," John calls out to his daughter across the room. Bamby looks up and blinks at us, her bright blues, magnified by the glasses she's wearing. Looking more like an owl than a girl, she frowns and pushes the magnifiers onto her forehead.

"Yeah?" she asks blandly.

"You gonna be done with that body or ready to cut her open anytime soon?" John asks.

Bamby shakes her head. "I really want everything cataloged. Better than me missing something. Slow and steady, dad, slow and steady." She grins her own version of his smile back him.

I watch him weaken under the look.

"All right, kid, just let me know," he replies.

She nods and slips the glasses back down to rest on her nose. "Don't I always," she chides lightly and turns back to her task over the body.

"You do know that she's got you wrapped around her finger," I whisper over to the proud father.

He shrugs and says, "She and that thing she calls a sister had me wrapped around their finger when I saw them the first time at a month old. I'm used to it by now."

"Alright, so we've got a few hours yet before normal people are still awake and functioning. You want to start sifting through the vacuum bags? I think that we picked up only the two," I think out loud. The interviews with the neighbors were completed a few minutes ago as I uploaded the transcripts to our database.

Yawning, he nods. "Maybe we can find something useful there. We're not getting anywhere with anything else right now."

Moving to stand I stop as I hear, "Just so you know, you both look like hell."

I swivel on my stool and smile as Jill comes walking towards us, the swinging doors to the lab moving behind her. She's got that annoyed swagger she has adapted from me. I glance at my watch, it's a little past six in the morning and she's carrying a tray of Starbucks in one hand a bag from the same coffee pushers in the other.

Honestly my wife's a sight for sore eyes. In her jeans and rumpled t-shirt, no make-up and glasses, I really just want to kiss the hell out of her right now. When she's like this, she's the best. There's a large portion of the populace that's seen her coiffed and polished, in high gloss ads or in magazines for interviews. They all think she's perfect that way, but she's not. She's an airbrushed, semi-plastic looking clothes rack in those photos. They don't know that she actually has hips, that she's got a small chest, which is good for me, I'm not that much of a breast girl, and that she has an ass, I am an ass girl. I'm not a fan of her in make-up and I like it when she wears her hair in a ponytail.

Right now, at six-plus minutes in the morning when I haven't seen a bed since the previous morning, she's gorgeous and now she's looking at me funny. "What?" I ask, unconsciously swiping the corner of my mouth. I've been known to drool on occasion.

She just smirks as she blindly hands out the cups of coffee to the magically materialized Lucy and Travis. Bamby comes bounding over, tossing her gloves in the biohazard container. Lucy and Travis both groan as they sip their coffee.

Bamby gushes, "Oh, my, God, you are like my most favorite person right now! I seriously want to have your baby."

Jill giggles and lets her down easy, "No babies for me thank you. Talk to my wife."

My eyes grow large and I shake my head furiously.

"Seriously, Jill, if we weren't married to different people, I would rock your world for this," John slips in.

"Well, we can discuss a divorce and you and I can talk later, but hold on," Jill pauses the flirting and pulls out two of those travel carafes. "Now," she says, turning to me and running a red lacquered manicured nail down my jaw line, "You know what this means. I will be collecting for this from you later."

I swallow and nod. She got up before the sun rose, drove an hour up here, went to the local Starbucks and dropped it off for us. I may as well have Jill's Bitch tattooed somewhere across my forehead.

"Besides," she addresses my co-workers, "I thought you could use it." They all go a little mushy.

I know. My wife is the best. She knows I know this. She exploits my weakness for her to the limits. It works. I can't seem to muster up the gumption to care all that much.

Her brow furrows as she looks past me, cocking her head to the side. "Are you guys taking classes in philosophy?"

We all look at her. She looks down at me, asking, "That quote, Nietzsche, it's from his work, Beyond Good and Evil." She pauses and then furthers the explanation from the blank stares she's getting, "His book, the rest of it's called Prelude to Philosophy of the Future." Her lips purse and she shakes her head. "But, it's misquoted. It is more often than not, but the actual quote is,

_"It seems that in order to inscribe themselves upon the heart of humanity with everlasting claims, all great things have first to wander about the earth as enormous and awe- inspiring caricatures: dogmatic philosophy has been a caricature of this kind—for instance, the Vedanta doctrine in Asia, and Platonism in Europe."_

The misquote is common though," she finishes with a halfhearted shrug.

I quip, "Smart chicks are sooo hot."

John goes, "When did you get all knowledgeable?"

Jill scoffs at all of us and says, "Just because I look pretty doesn't mean I can't be smart. I gots that college degree just like the rest of you."

"OH! Thank God!" Bamby says, thumping the side of her head. "I knew I heard that somewhere."

"My genius daughter ladies and gentleman." He waves a hand his daughter's way before asking, "Why didn't you get this?"

The brunette just rolls her eyes and scoffs, "I have several specialties and sub-specialty certifications in the field of Forensics and hold two doctorates. I play a guitar so well it has driven grown men to weep. Fuck Nietzsche, he was a prick anyhow."

And that's John daughter all right.

* * *

The morning drug on. Painfully in some regards. Jill's help with the quote didn't yield much. I mean in terms of a profile, it will assist when I finally have one together that I like, but until then…

I sigh and toss the pen that's by my right hand.

It's just another puzzle piece that I don't know what to do with.

I rub my eyes and resist the urge to flop my head down on the lab bench I've been working on since this morning. John went to get us some food. More than likely he'll come back with double cheeseburgers from McDonalds, Cokes, fries and apple pies. How we manage to stay in shape is beyond me.

I rub my forehead and go back to the analytics on the labs. Nothing that jumped out. All of it, consistent with sucking up the dust in the carpet on any home in America. I don't even need to look at the rest of the results to know that they aren't going to help us. A little more than annoyed, I shut my laptop closed and spin around to the board.

"Hey," John calls out. He strides through the lab doors with a very large bag in his hands and another bag from 7-Eleven. "Let's grub and then, Bamby!" he stops his thoughts and calls his daughter and the other two, "Luce, Travis. Soups on!"

Three heads poke out of three different doors down the one hallway that we have. I chuckle. How could I not. All three exit their respective rooms at the same time and all of them look just as annoyed as I feel.

Crowding around the lab bench, we all shut up and tuck into our food. The only sounds that can be heard are the quick swallows and slurps of mastication from five people who've done nothing but look at a corpse and process dirt the entire night and morning.

"Ya know," Bamby says around a mouthful of food, "I think we could make a case for calling McDonald's the world's biggest serial killer."

All of us top chewing and look over at John's daughter.

"Think about it. I mean smoking okay, but this…" she hefts her burger, "it's nothing more than assisted suicide and all of us are willing participants. I think there's a case here."

"Sweetheart, shut up and eat your food. You have a body to cut up when you're done," John chides.

Travis shakes his head and laughs. "I think there's something to consider about this father/daughter relationship."

"Meh," Bamby grunts, "I'm done anyhow." She punctuates her declaration by balling up her wrapper and shooting it into the trash bin a few yards away. It hits the rim and falls in. "Score!" she shouts.

"I'm good," I say, mimicking her actions with my own wrapper. "You gonna be ready for the post soon?"

"Yeah, I'm going to go finish the test I'm running and then we're good," she chirps and saunters off.

We all finish the rest of our food in short order. Disposing of the trash and washing our hands, Lucy and Travis go back to the rooms where they were working as Bamby comes out, gear on for the autopsy she's scheduled this afternoon.

She grins at me and her father before slipping on her mask. "We ready kids?" she asks, stepping over to the body and picking up the chart sitting on top of the victims torso. John and I look at each other and raise our arms in a 'what are you going to do gesture'.

Grabbing a gown for each of us, I hand his off and slip mine on over the two day old clothes. We stand off to the right, giving her enough space to work around the body and watch. There are very few things Bamby is meticulous with; most of the time, she's this ball of energy that bounces around doing three different things at once. She's a masterful multi-tasker and she'll make your head spin during a conversation. The girl will change topics so quickly she'll be two subjects past what you were talking about.

But.

This is major.

She's meticulous collecting evidence and while she's performing a post. Never have I seen her so focused as she attends to a body post-mortem. I'd feel comfortable saying she's the best in the business. I'm also thankful that she's on our side and working for our team. I was really surprised when John brought her on board. I didn't think he'd want his daughters around what we do…I know that if I had kids, I wouldn't want them around any of this.

I'd want them as far away as possible.

But there's that saying about apples and trees and the apples falling. It holds true respective to John's children. Spencer and Bamby are very much like their father each showing different facets of my partner's character. Spencer is a tad more reserved, Becca is too though. Spencer and Becca also take a minute or two to warm to or rather they a take minute or two to warm up to you, but once you've been accepted in, as part of their group, they're about as friendly as you can get.

John gently shoulder checks me as Bamby begins talking, "As I was working on Denbow, there were some things, inconsistencies that needed to be looked into." She glances up from the body to make sure that we're listening. Satisfied that she has our attention, she continues, "We all know, or at least should know, that the skin is the largest organ on the body. It's connected to virtually every part of our structure. Denbow, Sheridan and Talbert all had similar wound patterns, at least with what was presented to me, but still there are questions that need to be asked."

She stops talking and lifts the scalpel in her hand to appraise her handy work, the incisions on the corpse good enough for her inspection; she sets the instrument down and reaches for the Stryker saw. It's akin to the sound of a high powered dental drill as she cuts into the cranium of the body. Working the circumference of the head, the top part of the skull is removed to a membrane covered brain.

The saw goes off, gets put down and she grabs the scalpel to cut away the membrane, severe the brain from its stem and place it in a jar of formalin. I swallow as she goes back to the body, peeling back the skin, fat and muscle of our latest victim. She picks up a set of, well, for all intents, they can be called shears and snips the ribs free first to remove them. Then she attacks the pericardial sac and abdominal muscles, removing them to expose the organs underneath.

She looks up at us, while digging into the cavity to remove the intestines. Paying no attention to the removal of them, she gathers them in her arms and dumps them in the sink for a closer look later. "First, from a purely scientific standpoint, I wanted to know how he removed the facial skin that was determined to have come off in strips. I've matched the patterns on the outlaying flesh to be consistent with a surgical grade scalpel." She picks her own scalpel back up and reaches into the body cavity. She removes the heart first. Travis materializes out of nowhere and takes over once she passes him the organ to be measured and analyzed.

I swear Travis is a fucking ninja in his off time.

"Now, what we have to think about, well, what I have-slash-had to think about was transport. I think we're all in agreement that our killer did not perform these acts in the house where the bodies were found. There's nothing to suggest otherwise. But then we have to figure out how the bodies were transported. I mean really? If it were me, this whole operation of removing their faces and then dumping them is way too much." She hands the stomach over to Travis' waiting hands. The scalpel in her hand gets waved about and she rolls her eyes. "So I need

to figure out how and moreover how he stopped these women from bleeding out. I know enough from the tox reports that combinations of drugs were used to keep them awake while lucid enough to feel not only what was being done, but probably heightened the senses as well."

"This means," she breathes and hands over both lungs to Travis, "they bled. A lot. So I did some research. There is a couple on the market things that could work. A lot of them are used for Military purposes, like in the field, during combat type things. The choice is going to be something that promotes hemostasis, namely an antihemmoragic."

I watch as she stops talking and finishes up handing the organs over to Travis. They take their time as we watch him dissect the organs and take pieces for analysis. It doesn't take much longer until Bamby is satisfied that things are as done as done can be and she begins to sew up Mrs. Seevers.

As she's stitching, she starts up again, "I took some samples of the muscle tissue on our victim here. There were some bovine thrombin, think coagulant, that came up which helped me determine what exactly was used. The unsub used something called D-Stat Dry. I talked to a rep this morning and if we want to pursue this lead we'll need warrants and something more substantial to go on then the little bit of circumstantial evidence I have. Well maybe, I can request one to do a test on the thrombin, see if I can match it back to a specific batch that went out for shipment," at this point I think she's thinking out loud more than talking to us.

John and I look on amused as she mutters to herself for a few more minutes before turning her attention back to us. "Okay, so I'll follow up the D-Stat lead, what I need you two to figure out is what was done with the women from the time of capture to the time they are flayed."

"Uhm," I start and stop pressing my lips together. "Uh, well, I mean wouldn't they be being flayed?"

Bamby shakes her head. "They weren't though. I needed some time to get the experiment together, but over the past few months when I've had time on the weekends and such, I've been trying to figure out the healing pattern that I observed on the faces of the bodies. It was a very short time frame and they had little time to heal."

"Pumpkin," John says, "spit it out already."

"They weren't flayed straight away. If the timing on all the vics are the same, our unsub keeps them for approximately two and a half days and then flays them. I want to know what he does in those two and a half days."

My hands go to my hips as I chew on my lower lip.

I'd like to know too.

* * *

I watch my boss, partner and friend pace the length of our office. We moved back up here a few hours ago to digest the information that the death of Barbara Seevers provided. John's agitated and I can't seem to figure out why. None of the information that we were given is completely earth shattering revelations. To say that we're dealing with a sick fuck would be par for the course. We know the score. We know that when we accept a case.

He just seems to be taking this a bit harder than the other times we deal with something like this. Of course there's the argument that it's never really taken me this long to come up with a full profile on a subject. Someone from the B.A.U. may have some better insight, but I doubt it. It's actually how I was brought in to the F.B.I. I pulled a position for the Behavior Analysis Unit. Their job is actually very similar to what I'm doing right now, but they have a wider breath of case work.

The unit is busted into four primary sections, a counter terrorism group, crimes against adults, then against children and lastly the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, which John used to run; it is how we met and called ViCAP for short. As I started with the B.A.U. I was assigned to ViCAP and began working there shortly before meeting the acting director, John Malone.

John and I built instant report and he had just been given the green light to run his own specialized unit inside the F.B.I., the Special Investigations Unit. He kept the title as open as possible due to the nature of our work. While we take on cases that would and still could go to the B.A.U. we are a fully functional team that can work a case from front to back. The B.A.U.'s not specifically built that way. They're responsible for assistance. It's rare that they take on full cases. Their jobs are support and intelligence.

Ours isn't. We run operations with every other government organization from Military such as the Navy Seals or Army Rangers to the National Security Agency and the C.I.A. For the most part the S.I.U. was developed so that John could have something to do since his retirement from the U.S. Army. My boss put up his Two Gold Star General's Jacket and became an agent with the F.B.I. He's been running around doing his own thing for about eleven years. We've been together since the inception of this unit. I was the first agent he signed on. There have been a few others that have come and gone, but Lucy and Travis both have stuck around the longest.

We run the investigations, we process the scenes, we run the labs and we even have a dedicated assistant U.S. attorney for when we go to trial.

To say John and I are pros at this is an understatement. This shouldn't be pissing him off this much, but his pacing, what I'm observing now, tells me otherwise. He's upset and by the crease in his forehead, I know he's worried.

"John," I say gently, hoping that my voice will pull him from his thoughts.

His head snaps to me.

"Talk, partner, what are you thinking?" I ask, gently.

His lips press together and the crease in his forehead deepens. "I think we're in trouble."

"How so?" I ask, motioning him to take a seat next to me. He shakes his head, so I stand and lean against our combined desks. I fold my arms across my chest and urge him to continue, "Well, I really wish you'd share. So tell me, why are we in trouble?"

"Did I ever tell you about the solo job I pulled in Sung Phu, Vietnam?" he asks me before his lower lip gets curled inward causing his chin to jut out.

See this is one of those things with John. There's a lot that's been pieced together over the years about his past. It's checkered to say the least. Since nineteen-eighty-six through nineteen-ninety-three, he was a two star general for the U.S. Army. He ran and still consults for a small contingency of soldiers inside of Special Forces. From what I can deduce, John has more pull then the Vice President and he's not the only one. There are few people that I've seen over the years that, like John, are given a near cart blanche to government resources. He picks up a phone call, tells them what he wants and it's done.

He also very rarely tells me about his assignments. I know a lot of them were black ops. I'm good with that. He's a good man; moreover he's a good father, husband and friend. Rebecca was also assigned with him. I think it's only slightly amusing that the military has issues with women serving in combat, but from what I know of Rebecca and her past, she was one hell of a black ops soldier. His wife's history is just as colorful as her husbands.

I'm going to take the opportunity and hear another story as I shake my head.

He gives a mirthless laugh and says, "Just so you know, me telling you this story is going to cause me a shit storm of paperwork to up your security clearance." He winks at me. "Pretty soon, you'll have access to my personal file. Then you can start to blackmail me."

"John, I got enough dirt on you now," I say grinning.

"Very true, but anyway back to the moral of the story. Rebecca and I were asked to go to Sung Phu to neutralize a threat to the government of Vietnam. A fringe faction of the Khmer Rouge. What we weren't told was that it was actually a ruse. Becca and I were used as a trade. The fringe got to keep and torture us while the government got intelligence. There was one captain in charge of us. He was…he used to try different torture methods. It wasn't that they were any more painful, just different. These killings just, there's symmetry there and I can't make it speak to me, but I think we're in trouble."

"How'd you get out?" I ask, not wanting to think about what his story implies for not only his past and Becca's but for our case now.

"Killed the fuckers to a man, stole a vehicle and blew the place up. Becca's a fucking genius with exit strategy. She's saved my ass more than once," he says proudly.

I nod. "So, now what?"

He scratches his forehead, right above his left eye where a thin scar runs the length of his temple to a line across to his eyebrow. It's barely noticeable if you're not familiar with his face, but I've studied that scar a few times.

"I think we need to start asking questions," he moves to a clean whiteboard and writes, 'Why Nietzsche?'

I stand and move next to him. The two of us shoulder to shoulder, each with a marker in hand begin writing. I draw a line down the middle of the board. He moves around me and in the right hand column writes 'crazy?' I start writing more questions:

_Why mess up the quote?_

_Where is he doing his work? _

_How is he keeping them alive? _

John nods, but says nothing as we switch positions and he writes:

_Why so nomadic? _

_Why the sequence in vic hair color? _

_Why the face?_

_What happens to face after removed?_

Simultaneously we step back and look at the left hand side of the board. Too many questions and not enough answers. I tap the end of the marker against my chin. I review the mental list of what we know and what we don't know of our unsub. Primarily it's what the bodies and the scenes tell us.

It's really not a lot, but it's more than what we had two days ago. My vision blurs slightly from the lack of sleep and they burn. I ignore it.

I step up to the right side of the board and press the tip of my marker to the board to draw a line through the word 'crazy'. Our unsub isn't crazy in the classical sense.

Instead, I move lower and begin to piece together the fragments that we have. A picture begins to form in my mind and I start to write:

_Subject is male, middle aged, high probability that he's Caucasian…nomadic, narcissistic, sadistic… _

And that's when it this me. "Sometimes John, I'm fucking retarded. It's not about the face. Not really. The face is a trophy. A means to an end if you will. Take a look at our victims. All of them are pretty in their own right. Pretty enough to be vain about what they look like. Our guy keeps them alive no more, no less than three days. What the hell do you do with someone for that time frame? The killings aren't sexual in nature. We know this. This isn't about power either. It's clear that he feels powerful, confident. Who wouldn't doing what he's done. This is about misery. These women are means for him to inflict and witness human misery at its peak."

His eyes brighten and he adds, "We've been comin' at this from the wrong side. The end goal for most serials are the killing, the act, the power, the control and manipulations. This guy doesn't want that. He wants to view, inflict and revel in pain and suffering."

I nod and say, "As for where he's doing his work, I've been thinking about this. Duluth was the only body that we know of that's got him not placing the vic at home."

"You want to go have a look see?" he asks me already knowing my answer.

I nod.

I don't think it could hurt in the slightest.

* * *

Sometimes it just doesn't pay to open up my big fucking mouth. I mean what the hell was I thinking. I haven't seen a bed since Thursday night. It's eleven p.m. Saturday night and I'm traipsing through the fucking woods looking for a shack in the middle of Minnesota because I have an over inflated hero complex.

Maybe Jill was right and we should have done this in the morning.

But John had already had the jet prepped and we were ready for it. So instead of being smart about it. The two of us decide to grab the jet and high tail it to Minnesota to find the hunting shack Margaret Talbot was found in.

I get it. I'm not too bright. Although in my defense neither is my partner because if he were, he'd have said let's get some sleep first and head out first thing in the a.m.

Did he?

No.

Which is why, after a three hour flight, one car ride and a small drive on an ATV, we're picking our way through woods so dark I can't see my hand two inches in front of my face. Thank God for L.E.D. flashlights.

God. Send.

"What the fuck were we thinking?" John groans from my left.

"I was just thinking the same damn thing," I grumble and stumble over an upturned tree root. "Mother fuc…ya know I hate the fucking woods. I hate camping and I hate nature and I hate…"

"Life?" he chortles next to me, stopping to look at the map in his hand again.

"Blow me, Malone," I snip and check the compass to make sure that we're headed in the right direction.

"Hmm, Annie, if you had the parts, you may just be the one guy I'd get on my knees for," he deadpans.

Oh. Eww. Just fucking eww.

"Enough, okay I get it, I'm hot. I don't need you to go gay to tell me that. It'll throw off our mojo." I point my flashlight up ahead and he nods.

"Tell me about it," he agrees and we both start off in the direction I just pointed.

"I'm thinking once we're done here and we get back to Virginia, we sleep most of the morning and afternoon. Let's let Lucy and Travis dig some and see what else they can come up with. Start fresh Tuesday morning. Monday night though," he says and swings his flashlight wide and to the right of us.

A shack about fifty yards ahead materializes in the beam of the light.

"Thank God!" I say and start our journey with a little more pep and ask, "But Monday night what?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm thinking you, me, Becca and Jill go to D.C. for a night on the town. Some drinks, some food, maybe a bit of dancing." He turns to me and points the flashlight under his chin. Wiggling his eyebrows, he starts to sway his hips. I watch on as his feet begin to move. I think it's a muted version of the Cha-Cha.

He grabs me by the hips and presses us together. "You know how much I love to dance, partner."

I fall into step with him easy enough, moving to the tune he obviously has playing in his head. "I think maybe you've been up for too long."

He shrugs and spins us around so that he's walking backwards, leading us to our destination. "Perhaps, maybe it's just the need to blow off some steam. A little frivolity goes a long way."

I rest my hands on his biceps and shrug my agreement. "I know, those damn cop shows depict all of us as morose, broody fuckers who can't have a good time. I mean do you know any one like that?"

Our mouths screw to the side for an instant and we both say, "Petrovich!"

"That cat," John says as we dance in place at the entrance of the shack, "Needs laid. I am half tempted to get him a hooker if it'd help. I mean come on, I made a career out of black ops and I still manage to find the joy in life. What the fuck's his excuse? Nicked his stupid pointy head shaving it bald?"

I shake my head and gently push away from him. "I was thinking that, or he's seriously in the closet. Maybe I should hook him up with one of Jill's buddies. She knows some eligible gay men in the area."

"That's not a bad idea. We'll talk about it over dinner tomorrow night," he decides for us.

We both turn to look at the doorless shack and shine a light on the inside.

"Why'd we decide to do this again?" John asks from beside me.

"Uh, we're morons," I supply.

Our mood grows a little more somber at the task facing us.

"Good enough," he accepts. "Ladies first," he says motioning me with the flash light,

I roll my eyes, even though he can't see it and mumble, "Just like a man."

I swing my light in first, arching it up and around the shack's aluminum ceiling. Nothing special, graffiti, cobwebs, no visible critters, there's some trash on the floor.

I step over the raised threshold and pull a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of my messenger bag. I hear John put his on and pull a camping lamp out of his bag. He sets it on the table in the shack and turns it on.

It lights up the tiny space and allows us to pocket our flashlights. Replacing the flashlight in my hand with a spray bottle full of Luminol, I begin with the table, spraying the visible surface down, then move towards the back of the shack and spray the wall to the right of the table, moving up the wall to the roof and down the other wall to the crude, dirt floor.

John does the same from his position at the other end of the table. We finish at the same time. I nod and he flips the camping light switch. The bright L.E.D. bulb that was visible, winks out and on comes its mate, a black light that will help the Luminol fluoresce.

The black light winks on and I grumble, "Well fuck me."

"Ain't that interesting?" John asks.

The spray area of the Luminol caused the chemical reagent to glow like Christmas Fucking Night.

"Well, what do you want to do about this?" I ask, looking at an arc on the wall that may very well be an atrial spray pattern.

"We bag and tag, Ann. Let's get started," he answers.

Sometimes I hate his answers. They usually mean lots more work for me. "Ya know we could call some techs out here in the A.M."

"Nah, we're here and I'd rather leave Duluth as soon as possible. Minnesotans don't like me too much," he answers.

"No one likes you too much. You either want to blow something up or kill someone when you go anywhere," I tease.

He can't argue so instead he pulls his own kit from his back pack. I follow suit and we take the time necessary to collect sample after sample. The hours bleed together as John and I work in a pattern that segments the room into a grid. He sticks to his half and I stick to mine. The pain in my lower back from being stooped over quits being felt somewhere along the way.

John and I end up in this zone when we do things like this. Time becomes an afterthought and we move together so well that I can't tell he's even in the room. I bag and tag bits of the floor, wood, chunks of debris and anything else that I can find.

I'm not sure how much we'll learn from this, but it can't hurt. Finally, I reach the end of my grid and slip the last evidence bag into my sack.

Light leaks into the corners of the room. I groan. "Fuck me," I plead. "Tell me it's not morning."

"It's not morning," John parrots back from his own corner.

"Bullshit. There's light outside," I bark.

"Hey you asked me to tell you it's not morning. You didn't specify that you wanted the statement to be valid," he groans as he rights himself. "Jesus H. Christ. I'm going to be sore tonight."

"So that mean no dancing?" I ask a little put out. I like dancing. I like dancing with Jill.

"Nah, I'll have Becca put some Ben-Gay on it before I crash this afternoon." He shuts off the lamp and gathers his things. "Let's go. With any luck we can have this stuff dumped off to Luce and Travis by nine and in bed by ten. We'll meet for dinner around seven and then cut a rug after."

I can't disagree with the plan at all so I follow him outside, squinting against the rising sun and back to the ATV's that will take us back to the truck that we have and then the truck can take us back to the plane John flew us in.

I so want a goddamn shower. I want a shower and a clean bed and some food at some point. Those thoughts persist through our travel. I help John in the cockpit and he flies us home. I'm not too sure who the jet belongs to.

Craning my neck, I look back and squint. There's some seal on the far end of the cabin. I'm not even sure why I care. So instead, I focus on the sky in front of me and before I know it, I see the ground rushing up to meet us. It's the most beautiful thing in the world.

I'm so damn tired my hair hurts. Taxing in, I see a small cluster of people in front of the hangar that we're moving towards. The people get clearer and I see our team plus Becca and Jill standing there waiting on us.

* * *

**Ch. 5 – Made to Meet Your Maker**

John had a bully of an idea. It was a smashing plan that should have panned out, but his plans and mine for that matter seem to go to pot more often than not. Instead of being asleep in my bed, where I really should be, I'm stuck in trial prep because our A.U.S.A decided to pop over right when we got back from Duluth.

I rub at my burning eyes and blink away the bright spots the pressure from the rubbing caused. I could blame myself, it's really all my fault, I forgot about the upcoming court case that I am subpoenaed to give testimony for. We've been in an interview room for the past two hours. He keeps asking the same questions different ways. I keep giving him the same answer the same way.

He opens his mouth to ask a question and I put a hand up. "Paul, I get it. You want the point driven home. My answer to the last question isn't going to change. I've been up since early Friday morning and in case you haven't noticed, it's Monday morning. Can we be done now?"

He closes his mouth shut with an audible clack. I don't mean to be mean and evil, but my exhaustion should be obvious. Paul's used to better cooperation from me. Well, buddy, my ability to answer the same questions for two hours and not lose my cool went out the window somewhere over Ohio. I'm done.

"Special Agent Flemming is there anything else that you want me to cover during your testimony?" A.U.S.A. Unamuano asks as politely as possible.

I shake my head at the man. He's not a bad guy. Decent lawyer. We've worked two other cases together where I've given testimony. He's good at his job and he doesn't mess with the investigators.

"Well then, I think we can wrap it up and you can go back to work," he says, gathering a small stack of papers together. "Or find some place to go to sleep." I watch as he shuts his laptop closed and prepares to leave.

"Thanks Paul. I need to be in court when next week?" I ask trying to stifle the yawn.

"I think you should be good to go on after lunch on Thursday. We'll see what the judge's mood is like." I nod and watch him scurry out of the interview room. "Good day, Ann," he throws over his shoulder.

Sighing, I push my hand through my hair and lean back, resting my eyes for a few minutes. They pop open when I feel myself start to drift off. I need to finish out today and then I can sleep.

Jill wasn't too pleased. I sent her home in much the same fashion that John sent Rebecca home. I think they left together, conspiring with each other to have us taken out.

We don't do this that often, but there's just been a ton of breaks over the past twenty-four to forty-eight hours on the case. It's been crucial and I can't leave just because I'm a little tired. So instead of doing a full on face plant on the conference table, I push myself back and stand.

Our offices are combined with a small outfit of the N.S.A. The building is nothing but a big rectangle. On one end, we have our department, in the center there are interview rooms, a few offices, restrooms and a kitchen and on the other end there is the small N.S.A. group that does God knows what. Below us are labs that we share and a small corner is given to B.A.U. for a server room and to house some level one counter intelligence geeks.

The N.S.A. director, Kevin Roeffy, is also a Special Forces Alumni. The thought that not only are Kevin and John from the Army, they hold a similar rank and they're both here makes me think conspiracy. It's that or the government just doesn't know what to do with retired military that probably know enough to form their own army and stage a coup d'état.

Knowing John and having worked with Kevin before, it wouldn't shock me that it's something that our government should fear. I trust both of them with my life and Jill's, but it doesn't mean that it's smart.

I shuffle out of the interview room and hang a right, heading for one of the bathrooms. The room is empty as I turn the faucet on and splash some cool water on my face. It has little effect, but I manage to wake myself up a little. I need to check with the team and help them catalogue what John and I brought back.

I give myself a once over in the mirror, my blue eyes are a little dull, the dark circles under them don't help much and my cheeks are a little sunken. In short, I look like shit. I gave up on decent looking hair yesterday at some point. It's been in a ponytail since then. My green button down has a coffee stain on it and I'm out of a change of clothes. The pants that I have on have seen better days. In fact, the hi-cotton poly blend slacks may just see the trash. Since crawling around on the floor of that shack last night, I don't know if they're going to be salvageable. Especially when the labs come back with the results.

It's one of the down sides to the job. If the crime scene's in a public place, you never really want to touch anything ever again. I groan and pull some paper towels free, mopping my face and drying my hands. I toss the used towels in the garbage and square my shoulders before stepping out in to the hallway. I go right again approaching our department floor. Music assaults my ears the closer I get. Recognizing the sound of Nirvana's Heart Shaped Box, I bob my head to the music and stop short of interrupting the sight before me.

Bamby and John are rocking out together, both doing some solid air guitar. I would be shocked had I not seen this before. All of us have different coping mechanisms. Lucy will work a case until she can't move anymore, then we'll find her somewhere, usually in a conference room, curled up like a baby on top of a table. It's gotten to the point where we actually keep a pillow and blanket here for her. John's been thinking about putting a couch or two in the department so that we can all catch up on sleep when things get tense. I just don't know where's he's going to put them.

Travis, when the stakes get high, goes for runs. He'll run his ass off, come back a sweaty mess and go straight back to what needs to be done. Bamby, John and I have grown accustomed to using music as our outlet. It helps bleed away some of the stress and if we play the right type of music it will invigorate and remotivate us.

Hence, the rock out session that I just walked in on. John grins as he looks in my direction. He saunters my way and the next thing I know, we're holding hands jumping up and down together. I laugh and sing along until the song ends. We all stop and catch our breath. I can tell that we all feel slightly better and the biggest plus, it doesn't feel like my blood is stagnant in my veins. It courses through a reminder that I'm alive and I'm here doing what I need to do to stop someone who takes that away from people.

"Nothing like a little Grunge to bring us back from the depths of sleep deprivation and psychosis!" John yells.

I raise an eyebrow as we all collapse onto the nearest chairs. "We do need our heads examined. That's my official stance."

He waves his hand around and grunts, "Duly noted. At least it feels like I actually have a blood pressure now."

Bamby shakes her head and says, "Yeah, mom's gonna kill you when you get home."

"I know," he says a bit resigned to being in trouble.

I feel his pain. Jill's gonna give me an earful when I finally get home too.

Bamby turns the music down that was coming from the computer and huffs, "Well that was fun."

"Aye," John says, "Back to the salt mines!"

"Besides a shit load of samples, did you two learn anything else out?" Bamby asks across from me.

"A few things actually," I answer to John's amazement. "I've been thinking that Margaret was the one he perfected his signature on. Our first glimpse at what and who he is is Maria Sheridan. He finalized everything in L.A. She was the first true start of the series. The teams in L.A. did a decent job of gathering everything they could. Our unsub just didn't leave much for us to look at."

"So going back over it won't help?" John interrupts.

"No, I don't think it will. I think we should take a longer look at Barbara. Obviously, he wants some kind of attention. From us or from someone else," I reason.

"The letter, Ann, was addressed to you. He's focused on you," Bamby chimes in.

I wag my finger, "Not necessarily. I could be a means to an end. Out of all of us here, I've gotten the most media attention. I take point at press conferences and interviews. That's part of my role. It may have nothing to do with me." I'm not sure if I believe that, but right now I say it like I mean it.

"So now what?" the doctor wonders out loud.

"We can start breaking down what we brought back and try to find some new thread of the investigation," John answers for me.

"Okay," Bamby says standing. "Then I'm going to go help Lucy and Travis in the labs. I suggest you take the rest of the afternoon and evening, go home and get some sleep. All the rest of us have been to bed."

She doesn't wait for a response, but instead strides out of the office, towards the steps that lead down to the labs.

"I think, my daughter has the right idea, partner." John stands and claps his hands together. "We'll hold off on our dinner plans and regroup when I feel more awake."

I nod my agreement and snag my keys, leaving everything else at my desk. It's time to finally go home.

* * *

The first thing I feel is fingers gently combing through my hair while blunt nails scrape gently across my scalp. I know that hand and I know the body that is pressed against mine. What I don't know is the time and how exactly I ended up in here.

I am home, I am safe and Jill is next to me.

That's good enough for me right now. Slowly, I open my eyes and position my head so that the first thing I see is her face. She's propped up on her right arm, looking down at me. Her left doesn't stop playing with my hair and for that I'm thankful.

"Ah, there're those eyes," she whispers to me.

"Hi," I rasp my voice thick and dry from sleep.

"Hey, stranger," she purrs back, "good to see you here."

"Well, here is my favorite place. What timeizit?" I wonder and yawn. My eyes burn and the inside of my lids have been downgraded in sandpaper coarsity. They were at a twenty and have dropped to a fine blend of one-twenty-grade coarseness. I can live with that. In fact, it feels damn pleasant in comparison to what it was when I was at work. "When did I get home?"

Her eyebrows knit together, but she smirks and answers, "It's late, around eleven or so and you got home around four. Apollo is a little crooked, but you didn't hit anything." She doesn't sound peeved, just worried. "You came in, kissed me all sloppy like and then fell face first into bed."

"Hmm," I moan and curl myself around her stomach, causing her to fall back into the bed, onto her back. "I don't have clothes on. You take advantage?"

She snorts and grumbles, "No, you're clothes are being burned the next time we light a fire or perhaps, I should call HAZMAT and they can dispose of them. I just changed the sheets; I wasn't letting you in bed with dirty, stinky clothes."

I blink up at her scrunchy face and feel warmth spread over me. I'm still tired, but I feel a lot better. "Thank you, babe."

"It's what I do," she says off handedly.

"Nah, you're just way too good to me. Worries me on occasion," I say a little too honestly. It's a thing when I'm tired, my filters go away and they're not especially thick where Jill's concerned.

"Uh-huh, after this last stint, I'd be worried too if I were you," she says, her voice taking on a slight edge.

I tighten my hold on her midsection and wrap our legs together. I knew this was coming. Hell, I'm even slightly prepared for it. "How much hot water am I in?"

"Don't Ann, don't try to be coy or cute or try to play this off like I'm not upset and what you've put yourself through doesn't matter," she says this, she says this gently, but the intensity behind the softness is not lost on me. Sometimes dealing with Jill and learning to speak her language is an art. It's subtle, but intense.

"I'm not," I say as honestly and clearly as possible. "We've been through too much therapy and too many fights for me not to understand that you're upset." I would look up at her, but I'm afraid to see the look in her eyes.

When I get on a case like this, which is less often than what it used to be, her eyes always vacillated between hurt, anger and worry. All of them are reasonable. None of them are concern for her.

"This was you're last one," she warns. The message is clear. After an intense set of therapy sessions, we agreed that me, doing this, with the this being not sleeping or taking proper care of myself for more than two days, was only something that I could do once a year. I'd get one free pass to push myself past my breaking point. Only once would Jill tolerate it before she would step in.

I guess I just used up my pass this year.

"Hey, it's June, I think that's pretty good," I try to joke.

She grunts, annoyed at my attempt at humor. "I hate when you do this."

"I know," I reply tiredly. "It's not intentional, Jill. I don't..."

"It never is. Never, Ann. You just push and push and I get it, don't think I don't understand." I feel her hands grip my forearms as she tugs me up to look at her. I shut my eyes as soon as I see her face. I see her long enough to notice the tears leaking down and the wounded look in her eye.

Instead, I plant my hands on either side of her, hanging my head so that her lips just brush against my forehead. My hair drapes down and covers my face.

"I love that you care. I love that you try so hard, but I don't love you enough to watch you drive yourself to an early grave. I won't stand by and watch it," she finishes, placing a tender kiss on my forehead.

I slump against her and bury my nose into the crook of her neck. Her hands ghost up and down my back. "You're not Wonder Woman or Spider Man or Bat Girl. You're Ann. You're mine. You've been mine since you were fifteen," she stops and I feel her shudder. "I wish sometimes that being mine was enough for you to be happy."

I want to tell her I am happy and that it is more than enough. But the tears that leak from my eyes and the hard won truth of long therapy sessions would cause those words to be a lie.

I won't lie to her.

"I want that to be true, too, baby." I feel her nod.

"But then you wouldn't be you," she says without malice. I feel her draw a deep breath and release it. "Do you think maybe we can curb your hero complex the rest of the year? I like sleeping next to my wife."

I nod, but don't pick up my head.

"Good. Then maybe my wife can get the hell off me and join me in the shower. I was clean until I was mauled by a stinky federal agent," the tone of her voice takes on a slight lilt.

"Well," I mumble into her chest as I begin to poke my head up, "If you weren't so sexy, said federal agent, with her stinkiness probably wouldn't have mauled you."

Her nose crinkles as I finally meet her gaze. The wounded look is gone. In its place, I see love and a little mischief. I sober slightly, "You really are too good for me, you know that right?"

She shakes her head at this. "I think sometimes you have it backwards, Mrs. Flemming." Her fingertip comes into my line of sight as she drags her nail from between my eyebrows, down the gentle slope of my nose, over its tip and over my lips to end at my chin. "I think that I'm just trying to make up for the years I was away from you."

"I wish you'd let that go," I say and lean down to gently trap the tip of the assaulting finger between my front teeth. I shake it and she giggles. A full-throated giggle and the pain in my chest lessens marginally.

"I will when I quit feeling like an asshole for it," she states, letting me know that's as far as I'm going to get on that subject.

That's as far as I ever get with her on that subject. Instead of arguing my point, I take the finger in my mouth and lave the tip, running my tongue over the pad and around the tip. This elicits a slight groan. The groan sets off a chain reaction. My body responds on its own, igniting a small fire in the pit of my stomach and a painfully delicious contraction between my legs.

I let go of her finger and lower my head. I inhale and catch a whiff of my B.O. Right, I stink.

I need to shower. Shit.

Sighing, I trample the arousal that was building and flop over to her left. We lay side by side as she asks, "You got a whiff of yourself didn't you?"

I laugh, a full on belly aching, pain inducing laugh.

"I told you, you fucking smelled," she says while running her hand up my outer thigh, over my hip and grabs the waistband of my underwear. I get myself under control as I feel her pull on the elastic band. Looking down, I see it hovering above my hipbone, pinched between her thumb and index finger right before she lets go.

It snaps against my flesh.

I turn my head to her and lift my eyebrows.

"You do know," I say as my right hand creeps towards her exposed thigh, "what that means?"

She shakes her head smiling despite her attempt at a serious face.

"Too bad," I sigh, rolling away from her and off of the bed. "I was so going to offer hot make up sex in the shower. I figured we'd fought. It was only fitting, but…" I trail off and strip the tank top off.

I see her eyes rake down my body. When they come back, there's a slight frown.

"What?" I ask.

"You lost weight," she pouts.

My eyes bulge.

"You're one to talk! I've been threatening you with bondage and milkshakes for years," I grumble, wiggling out of my underwear.

"The tank top and underwear can go with the clothes. We'll burn them soon." She bounces off the bed, shedding her clothes and throwing them in the vicinity of our dirty clothes hamper. She slides up to me and presses our bodies together.

Flesh melds together and her tongue trails up my neck, along my jaw line to allow her lips to cover mine. I groan and open my mouth to her questing tongue. I pull back, breathless after a few minutes. She rests her forehead against mine and I walk us backwards to the bathroom.

I let her go and start up the shower. We both love really hot water so I fix the temperature before I turn around to see her leaning against the sink shyly.

I pull her to me and she kisses my chin. "I love you," she states earnestly.

"I love you to, Jill," I say with as much conviction. I take her left hand and kiss her knuckles and then the wedding band. "I'm sorry."

"I know." She tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and smiles at me. "Come on, let's get you all soapy. Then you can service me."

"As you wish," I say and follow her into the shower.

* * *

The moon is just starting to peek through the clouds as I hang a right on an access road that runs parallel to the I-95. It's the wee hours of the morning, the dashboard tells me it's a little after four in the morning. After my shower, we went to bed for a little while. I finally got out of it when I woke Jill up with my tossing and turning.

My wonderful wife just told me to get dressed and go. She knows me entirely too well. So I took her advice. I got ready and left her there amongst rumpled sheets that smelled of us. A smile ghosts over my face and I depress the gas pedal. I've decided to go on a small drive before hitting up my office.

A tried and true form of escape, I drive on back country roads, listening to whatever my iPod selects on shuffle mode. The moon shines through the clouds just a little and the air is cool despite the time of year.

With my window rolled down, I hang an arm out and let the wind blow through my hair. When we were younger and Lee got his license we would take off out of Richmond and find ways to get out and into the city without using the highway. We had a lot of fun on those nights.

Being a teenager, it's all so intense and angsty and really fucking annoying. But having good friends to share the experience with is a gift. I thank any god that will listen because I had Lee and Jill. I don't think I would have survived. My parents weren't ever really around. My grandfather took up the task at raising me when I turned nine years old. It was actually on my birthday that the cops came and arrested my dad. My mother had been out of the picture for a while and it was just him and me for a while, but he couldn't stay clean long enough. There were times when I'd get dropped off at one of his friend's house and left for a month or two. He'd come back around eventually to pick me up with apologies and promises.

Then something would happen, he'd get fired or his girlfriend would dump him, then he'd go on benders. When I turned nine, they came and got him for armed robbery and drug trafficking. Then I went to live with my grandfather, Darren Flemming. He was okay. A bit of an asshole on his good days and on his bad ones I just made it a point to not be home all that much.

We moved right before I started high school and that put me in a different district. That's when I met Jill and Lee. We became friends the first day and neither has really gone away. Sometimes, when I take drives like this, I have to wonder what I would be like if it weren't for them.

Would I be doing what I'm doing? Would I have survived past my twenties?

They both say I give them too much credit, but they don't understand. Jill's family is like the Walton's but totally cooler. Lee's family is slightly less together, but at least they're there for each other. Mine are an inconvenience. I've lost track of my mother, she used to come and go at times after she split and left me and my dad. My aunts and uncles could never manage to secure a job above minimum wage and I have cousins that can't seem to keep a job.

So to get away from it, Lee would drive me around and Jill would come along for the ride. Those were some of my fondest memories of an adolescence I'd just rather forget. So now, when I need to think or when Jill and I are at home and not doing anything, we'll hop in Apollo and take off for a few hours. I've learned all of the ins and outs of the area. I can actually get from here to Quantico twenty minutes faster, but in the winter it's a pain so I usually just stick to the highway.

This morning I head towards John's house. I figure I can swing by and pick him up and we can get started on the finalization of the profile. Submit it to a colleague in B.A.U. and see if there's anything that comes back from the system. I'm guessing that the search won't yield anything. The profile is hard to match and it feels like a new type of mindset for me. I think that's why I'm having such a hard time getting a structured profile together.

Usually, I've found that there are three types of killers, there are the crazy ones, the smart ones and then a hybrid of the two. The hybrid is usually the worst because not only are they able to think outside of the box, but they have no limits. It doesn't matter to them and they know what they're doing.

It's a dangerous combination that's gotten a lot of people killed.

But this killer, I can't seem to figure out. Why keep the women alive so long before killing them? To what end?

I know I said he wants to witness their misery, but even then…it just seems so…

Elementary.

I want to think that there's more to it than that.

And if there's not, I don't know what that could mean.

He's not raping them, he's not injuring them. There are no other wounds on the body.

Then, there's the quote. Did he know that he misquoted? If did know that he misquoted was his intent to draw our attention to the book. I've looked and read over the book. It's an anti-philosophy book in a sense. From the all the research I was able to dig up without having to read the book because one, I don't have that much time and two, I'm really not that sadistic, he was a pompous man. He thought too much, lived too little and liked even less.

I know that I'm supposed to be drawing parallels between Nietzsche and the unsub, but honestly, what the fuck is the killer trying to overcome? His heritage, his ego, his concept of self that he finds baseless? Does he think that the keys to his psyche are embedded within the pages of the book or just the lines of the quote?

I've thought about that a lot. What exactly is he trying to say? Is he wearing the monstrous mask so that humanity will recognize him?

There are a lot of incongruences within the case as a whole. It lacks a certain amount of cat and mouse gaming that sociopaths and serial killers like to build. What is also mildly disturbing is that he doesn't seem to want to be caught. There's always an end to these things. It's more often than not, due to their over inflated sense of imperviousness. Then the killer or killers are shocked when we catch up with them.

With these killings, it feels like it's just getting started and the idea to me and to our team is rather unfathomable. I don't want more people to suffer because we're not smart enough to connect the dots or discover the dots. I'm afraid that's where this is going.

I bring the car to a stop outside of John's home. It took a little less time than I thought to get here, but then again I was pushing sixty on roads that really shouldn't see a car move above forty-five. I shrug and kill the engine. The downstairs lights are ablaze and I know he's awake.

I pull the keys from the ignition and step out of Apollo. The sun's just starting to peek over the hilltops. I trot up to the door and punch in the security code to unlock the front door. Inside, it's cooler and I hear Becca and John bantering in the kitchen.

"I told you your daughter was going to get into trouble," John says.

I pause just outside the doorway and listen in.

"Why is Spencer my daughter when she gets in trouble, but your daughter when she figures out some weird ass experiment and pens a formula?" Becca asks.

"I think it's because John's an attention whore," I joke stepping into the kitchen.

"Ann!" Becca nearly shouts, "Thank God! A reasonable voice."

"I would not be calling my partner reasonable," John retorts pointing a finger at me. "She's the one that insisted we go to Duluth, she's the one that said we should break down that shack."

My mouth drops open.

"You fucking liar," I say, smiling as he hands me a cup of coffee.

He shrugs.

"Sweetie," Becca croons from her perch on a kitchen stool, "I know you're full of shit. Quit throwing your partner under the bus and get ready to leave. And while you're up stairs getting ready, go try to talk some sense into Spencer."

I raise an eyebrow in question and wonder what my adopted niece has gotten herself into.

Sensing the unasked question, John answers, "Spence decided to quit M.I.T. and move down here indefinitely."

My mouth forms a perfect 'o'.

That's not really like the girl I've come to know.

"She say why?" I ask.

Becca answers, "She didn't like the bureaucracy."

I grin.

"I'm not surprised," I say.

Two heads swivel my way and I shrug trying to offer them a different perspective, "She's not into politics and in academia it's all politics. She hates being told what to do and she hates it even more when it's some guy who thinks that she's dumber than him because she has enlarged mammary glands." I set my now empty cup in the sink and turn to them, folding my arms across my chest. "We all know she's had problems in the past wth some of the faculty. Obviously, there's something that happened and that something was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back."

"See," Becca says, "voice of reason and now go get ready for work and while you're at it, take those daughters of yours with you."

John salutes his wife and scurries off. My partner needs some help. I just don't know what kind yet.

* * *

I look out of my rearview mirror, checking to make sure that Bamby and Spencer are ready to go in Bamby's truck. The other anomaly with Bamby, the girl drives this huge ass Chevy Silverado 1500. It's got a crew cab and it's outfitted much like my Apollo. I've no idea what she was thinking, but she gushes over her truck much like I gush over my baby so…

I can't really judge.

As she pulls up behind me, I pull away from the curb and head towards work. John's sitting in the passenger seat, happy to not have to drive into work this morning. I take the access rode to his house slowly, the gravel kicking up behind me. I look over and see John slumped over in his seat, his head resting against my tinted window.

"You wanna talk about it?" I venture.

"She just showed up. Her sister picked her up at the airport. What's there to say really?" He rights himself and looks at me. "She's just not talking about it."

"She's not even been in town a day, John. Cut her some slack," I try to reason with him, but his jaw's set.

"It's not that Ann. She is…I can't put my finger on it, but something's up and I'm worried," he admits.

Nodding, I worry my lower lip. "How are you and Becca?" I try for a topic change. They went through this rocky patch last year and sometime around the holiday they worked it out.

"Good, really good actually," he grins. "She wasn't impressed with our weekend stunt, but we're back on track."

"Good," I say letting the car lapse back into silence.

We hit the highway soon enough and I open Apollo up. He purrs as I depress the pedal and zips down the highway. A glance in my rearview and see Bamby keeping pace, making me smile. That girl can dive. It takes no time to pass through the security checkpoints at Quantico to have us all filing into the office. Bamby talking to cover up the fact that Spencer looks like she lost her puppy and toy all on the same day.

I don't know why they insisted she come with us this morning. We'll be discussing case details and this isn't really Spencer's thing. She likes physics and music. Her love of music not as rabid as her sister's, but she's definitely an audiophile. I set my keys in my drawer and look up as the team assembles. Lucy and Travis are sitting on the edge of Lucy's desk greeting Spencer and catching up.

John catches my eyes and nods. I dip my chin and give him the green light.

"Good morning everyone," he booms. "We ready for today?"

Everyone just looks at him and he shrugs. "Can't blame me for trying." He claps his hands together and goes over to our boards with the case detail on them. "I think we should ask if there was anything significant pulled from the samples brought back from Duluth?"

Travis steps up and says, "We're still processing. You brought back a ton of stuff. We'll let you know. Lucy and I have a couple of junior lab techs cataloguing and cross referencing the samples."

"Good enough," John says and looks over at me.

I stand and move to his right. "As you can see, John and I were trying to peg the profile of our unsub. I'm comfortable assuming that we're dealing with a male. Some of the stats you can see here. I need to know if we have any evidence that would contradict what we have listed," I say pointing to the brainstorming session John and I had on the whiteboard to my left. Everyone shakes their heads and I continue, "All right with that in mind, there are questions that we can't answer, such as why they were kept alive for three days and the results of how they were kept alive?"

Bamby perks up, "I'm waiting on the final reports, but it wouldn't shock me that the combo of drugs in Seevers blood will match Denbow's. The wound patterns and the healing of the cuts were consistent with victim three."

I nod. "That's what I thought. To help steer the investigation, finding out why is just as important. I think we can all agree that these killings feel different than what we've encountered in the past."

My hands rise to rest at my hips and I drum my fingers on my waist. "What I'm theorizing is that they were kept alive to torture."

"What?" Lucy asks.

"Yeah, Ann, you were there for two autopsies, uh…did you not see the lack of wounds?" Bamby asks, clearly confused.

"I'm not saying they were physically tortured. We've all been up for a few days at some point. That's a form of torture. Doped up the way they were, he could have done any number of things to them." I reason. "Look, we've all seen the evidence; the missing face is the only indication of physical harm. There are very few reasons why someone would keep a captive around for that long just to skin their face off. I think the skinning is a by-product of his true intent."

"Uh, and that would be?" Travis pipes up.

"To watch them suffer. His end goal isn't a body with a missing face. His end goal is to soak up as much misery as he can. As I've looked at the victims, there are certain consistencies with their personality types that indicate they were marginally superficial. They were all attractive women in their early thirties. Evidence and they're profile indicate as much."

"That's a bit of a leap," Lucy interjects.

"Not really," John says, backing me up. "I agree with Ann. He's after their misery not their face. Now that's not to say that he isn't keeping the faces as trophies. Hell that's nearly a gimme. But I agree that I think the faces are just a bonus for the guy."

"The killer could care less about the skin," I pick up, "There's almost always a sexual bend or semi-sexual bend. These cases lack that on the surface, but then we don't know what he does with his trophies."

"Goes home and masturbates with them?" John offers.

"Oh, eww, thanks Dad," Bamby and Spencer groan at the same time.

"Like I need that mental image," Spencer grumps from her chair on the side of my desk.

"It's a possibility," I say. "It's not pleasant, but it has to be considered. The profile we're dealing with is someone with an above average intelligence, I wouldn't rule out medical training. Our unsub also has a very robust narcissistic personality. The profile suggests that he feels superior to not only his peers, but to others like him, to other sociopaths."

I go to the tack board with crime scene photos posted. "If we look at the position of the bodies, the women are fully clothed, they are resting almost peacefully. There's a certain amount of respect with the bodies after they're killed. I feel that's one of the reasons why they weren't assaulted. The other is the idea that he has of him being better than the average killer. He probably feels he's above the cheap tawdry behavior generally associated with profiles similar to his. It also seems like he's making a point to thumb his nose at the perception."

"So then why the note?" Bamby asks.

"His need for recognition. We've kept these cases from the media. There's been no press. He wants to point us in some direction and he wants recognition for the things he's done," I answer.

I move across the room to sit on the edge of John's desk to face my team. "The letter is a way to get the recognition. He put a number on the envelope that's common knowledge. It was supplied on one of our largest cases in New York."

"But how'd he know you were looking into his killings?" Spencer contributes her two-cents. "Bamby's filled me in on some of the details and if what you say is true, which seems logical, why and how did he know about you and everyone working his killings?"

"That," John answers, "is a question that we don't have an answer to just yet, kiddo. But, it's on my list of things to find out."

"Also, since we're talking about the letter why that quote? Moreover, why the misquote?" Travis shifts his weight to his other foot and folds his arms across his chest as he asks.

"Another excellent question that I don't have an answer for just yet. It's been stewing, but there's not a lot of answers or even a way to get the answers that we need short of finding him and asking."

"Which means," John stops the line of questioning, "We focus on what we can which is all the physical evidence. There are things that we can run down. Leads that need followed up on. I'd like to have your," he points to Bamby, Travis and Lucy, "efforts focused around processing all the samples that we've collected and doing a broad analysis. I know he's left nothing of himself behind, thus far, but we still need to keep digging. When we catch this guy, we're going to need as much physical evidence as possible for our A.U.S.A."

"In the meantime," I pick up. "John and I will be drafting a profile to submit to a friend over in the B.A.U. He can do some research and see if there are any unsolveds that line up with what we're going to put together."

"I'd also like for you and I to go back over to the Seevers residence and do some scouting," John follows up. "We know that they're being held and killed elsewhere. We need to find where that elsewhere is."

"Agreed," I say, "I'd also like to re-interview a few of the neighbors. I still find it weird that no one saw anything or at least remembers seeing anything."

Everyone accepts the doled out responsibilities and the meeting breaks up. John and I watch our team march down the hallway towards the lab access doors. Spencer trailing behind the three others.

I look at John and he gives me a half-hearted smile. "Let's get to work, kid."

* * *

**Ch. 6 –Understand Dependence**

The warm night breeze hits me as soon as Jill opens my door. She offers her hand to help me from Apollo. It's Tuesday night and John wanted to go to dinner, still very much liking the idea of cutting a little lose after such a hellish few days. I honestly couldn't agree more. So we decided on a short drive into D.C. and I let my wife drive. Now she's not a bad diver, but she's driving my baby. I got nervous. She also likes to go all out when we do go out like this. We both get dressed up; she gets to dive into her wardrobe to find the best possible outfits, which usually means I get suckered into wearing something I would usually never wear.

Like tonight, I have on a pair of Jill's Choo's, and a tailored pants suit with a silk blouse that exposes more of my chest than I'm usually comfortable with outside of the bedroom. I'm not a prude; I'm just not much for walking around in revealing clothing so people can ogle my chest. It kinda creeps me out.

Jill pulled out a little black dress that I haven't seen before and some heels that she purchased on our last trip down to New Orleans. We both have a little bit of makeup on, for me that's just some lip gloss, but for Jill that's foundation, powder, eyeliner and something on her lips. Tonight it's a sheer lipstick that makes me kinda want to kiss it off her.

I rarely get this dressed up, but when John and I are in town, there's a little out of the way restaurant that's upscale enough to require a dress code, but down to earth enough so that neither of us feels too out of place. The only problem with this is that it's on the outskirts of Capitol Hill. The neighborhood's subpar at best, but the food's fantastic.

Because of the locale and apparently our clothing, we get to deal with the locals. And they are in rare form this evening as a scuzzy excuse for what was once a white guy starts cat calling from his perch on a stoop right wear Jill parked. Usually, I ignore these things. I think that it's better to ignore and not give them what they want, like a confrontation.

My wife seems to have other ideas as the guy whistles again and propositions me, "Hey, sexy, those titties would look better if my dick was between them!"

That stops Jill in her tracks.

It's been argued that if you were able to combine Jill and me together, we'd be the perfect woman. I find this erroneous on several levels, but the most glaringly obvious falsity is that Jill's perfect the way she is. Of course I'm biased as well, but this is not the point. The point is that Jill's chest isn't very big and that's obvious from the dress she's wearing. I am, however, endowed enough to fill a 'D' cup.

I would also like to go on record that out of the two of us, Jill is way more possessive. So as the last words of the man's suggestion were uttered, I see her heat up. A flush spreads from the top of her head to below her neck. When that happens, I run.

This man doesn't know what he's done.

"Excuse me?" she spins rather impressively on one thin heel.

The man stops his kissy noises, shocked that Jill's taking the time.

"Babe," I try and stop her by placing a hand on her arm. She yanks it away.

"I said excuse me, shit for brains. What did you just fucking say to my wife?" she barks.

The man rises and stumbles our way. Getting a good look at him, I wish I rather didn't. His teeth are nearly rotted out and the track marks are visible even in the low lighting. "I said," he slurs this time, slightly, "That bitch you're with's gotta nice rack." He stops and leers at her, licking his cracked lips. "'Course, I kinda wanna fuck you to now."

That was the wrong thing to say.

He makes a move towards her as I step up, but she stops me.

On some level I know I should be more forceful, but I trust her. I'm thinking I should also flash my badge and have this jerk arrested, but that would ruin the evening. As I'm debating on a course of action, things happen that take my brain a moment to register.

Jill Leigh Flemming on the other hand, does not see a need to be so wishy-washy and she must see it differently because the man is a crumpled heap before I even register what happened. He's lying in the fetal position, blood is oozing from his nose and he's grabbing his crotch.

Jill stands over him and says in a far calmer voice than what is sane, "I suggest the next time you see a beautiful woman you treat her with a modicum of fucking respect you disgusting, idiotic, dog-humping, pathetic excuse for a junkie. I've puked things that look and smell better than you."

Ladies and gentleman, my wife, supermodel and actress, Jillian Ness.

It's then that I feel John come up behind me. "What's up?" he whispers in my ear.

I shake my head and wait. Jill finally turns away from him when she feels he's not going to move. Her smile is bright and wide as she takes my hand and leads me across the street to the restaurant. John and Becca follow. I glance back and see twin looks of confusion. I shrug.

What else am I going to do?

Once inside, being seated is a relative cake walk. As we move through the dining floor I process what just transpired. "Jill, what the hell were you thinking?" I hiss as we are set at a table off to the right and rear of the place. John and Jill flank me leaving Becca sitting across from me.

"What happened?" Becca asks.

"That thing outside decided to insult Ann. I informed him that wasn't very damn smart," she chirps from behind her menu.

"I think she broke his nose and kneed him in the crotch," I explain a little further.

Becca chuckles and John whistles appreciatively. He's been on the receiving end of Jill's rage once or twice. He's even got the scar to prove it.

"Oh, that reminds me, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go wash up," Jill says brightly. We all watch her stand and make her way towards the back of the building.

"She really laid him out?" John asks, setting his menu down.

I nod. "You know how she is. I was going to step in and was physically directed not to. I blink the next thing I know he's a bloody mass on the side walk."

"I forget how much fun she is," Becca laughs.

"Don't encourage her please," I plead.

"Hey, speaking of feisty women, how's Nora and that partner of hers?" John queries from next to me.

"Dunno, last time I talked to her was almost two weeks ago," I respond, but get interrupted by Jill's return.

"They're good," she answers for me. "I talked to Nikki the day before yesterday and Nora yesterday. They send their love and said to say hello. Oh," Jill looks at me and raises her eyebrow, "Nora says you're in the doghouse."

Great.

"These are the detectives you worked with on the Amos case?" Rebecca tries to figure out who they are.

John nods. "Good, solid detectives. Nora's a riot though. We didn't get to work with Nikki, but maybe something will come up and we can pull them in."

"'Cause the last time we worked together, didn't cause lots of grief for one of my best friends?" I retort. John knows that after Nora and I finished up that case Nikki freaked out and they had a small break in their relationship. That was years ago, but still. I don't want to put either of them through that again.

"It all worked out," John huffs, "What I'd like is to get them up here. We could use some solid investigators for the department."

"Well, you talk about them constantly; I'd like to meet them. Are they planning a vacation anytime soon?" Becca looks over her menu at Jill and me.

I shrug. Jill answers, "Next time they come up, whenever that is, we'll have you over. And John, you'd have an easier time convincing Ann to sale her car."

"Thank you." Becca beams at my wife while John grunts again. "What about you Jill, any work lined up?"

Jill shakes her head. "Not yet. A couple of offers, but…"

We still haven't settled on a sound solution to Jill's problem. I don't seem to offer much help as she just tells me that me saying 'do whatever you want' is not good advice.

And here I think it's supportive. Go figure.

"I get it. Since leaving the hospital, I'm not too sure what to do either," Becca commiserates. Last year in November, she left her position of Chief of Emergency Medicine to find something else to do with her life. She's forty-three. She holds several commendations from the U.S. government as well as the same rank as her husband. I'm not sure what else she wants to do with her life.

John and I look at each other and shrug. I think he's thinking the same things I am.

"The fallout from the movie wasn't pleasant." Jill and Becca scoot closer together to talk.

John elbows me and smirks.

"I saw that. I just don't get it. I really have no urge to know what anyone in Hollywood does in their spare time." Rebecca sets her menu down and sips her water.

"Exactly. If that's what furthering my career is going be like, I'd rather not do it. I fell into it anyhow. I can just as easily fall out of it."

John leans over and whispers, "Maybe we can convince them to go into business together."

I shoot him a look. "What the hell would they do?"

"Dunno, but it'd be funny." He wiggles his eyebrows and gets the finger from Jill.

"I heard that," she lets him know.

"Babe, we're in a nice public place, you're irreverent behavior is fun, but…" I try to calm her down and she shoots me a pout.

"It was called for," Becca backs her up and I drop it.

"You two could open up a jam making company," John furthers his joke.

This comment earns him a look from Becca. One that I wouldn't like directed at me.

"Or maybe not," he back peddles and I laugh.

The waiter comes by shortly after and takes our orders. Leaning back listening to the three people at my table banter back and forth, settle me a little. It's good to be me.

* * *

Eventually all things catch up to you and I've realized that some of those things are better to find you quicker than not. Dealing with one of my best friends so she can chew me out, is a lot better if I just get to it quickly. It's with this in mind that I develop a cogent argument to leave the safe confines of my bed and a sleeping wife to call Nora Delaney.

My phone's pinched between shoulder and ear as I pour my first cup of coffee for the day. I'm three rings in before I hear, "Delaney."

"Hmm, very sexy, snarl again for me, Nor," is my reply.

She scoffs, "Please, Flemming you know I know that's not what you like."

She's right. I sip my coffee and pad into the living room, set my mug down on the coffee table and fall back into the soft leather of my couch. "True, true. What's up, hon?"

"Me? The usual actually. I'm more interested in what's going on with you?" her voice quiets at this and some of the background noise dies down.

"Where are you?" I wonder.

"At this pancake breakfast, fundraising thing with Nikki. Her and some of her acquaintances are raising money for a youth league," Nora says.

I smile at this thinking that from where Nora was for the first two years or so of her and Nikki's relationship, Nora's come along way. It's really good to see. When she first started telling me about her partner, when they first met, something told me that she was a goner. I like to think that I can read people pretty well, but Nora there was a connection there that was instantaneous and sustaining.

We went through the academy together, where we had a brief, but very hot intimate relationship and now, seventeen years later, she's the closest thing to family that I have. Given our history and knowing her so well, she would talk about her new work partner and I knew. Then when we came to visit, I was too surprised to really contemplate the connection I witnessed between her and Nikki.

Nora was different, but in a good way. Nikki brought her to life in ways I hadn't seen. I'm happy to say that they're still happily together nearly nine years later. It also helps that Nikki's a damn riot. I love the socialite turned detective almost as much as I do Nora.

"Nice, but how do you figure into the breakfast?" I'm curious. Nora was never one to be the joiner. Nikki's softened some of those edges too. I make a note to get something extra nice for Nikki on her birthday at the end of the year and await Nora's response.

"I'm cooking. Seems that a few of the group fell ill," she says blandly. "Quit avoiding the question, Ann. I talked to Jill. And. Just so you know, the next time she calls me crying over worrying about you, I'll fly up there and kick that skinny ass from Quantico to NOLA and back again."

I smile. I can't help it. I love that she's so protective of Jill. "It's this case we've had on the books for…" I trail off and remember that she was there when I was first handed the file, "This is the Talbert, Sheridan case. A few more bodies have been added to the pile. We're trying to crack it."

"Oh, Jill didn't say that. You guys find anything yet?" she's curious now and a little less miffed at me.

"A little, not a lot and not nearly enough. There's still a lot to be done," I answer honestly and give her a rundown of all the particulars of the case. Everything from the first body that she reviewed to our latest victim. I tell her about the letter and the quote and everything in between.

As I finish, she digests the information and finally asks, "So you have at the very least seven crime scenes all together. None of the neighbors saw anything?"

"Nope," I confirm, a little frustrated.

"Hmm," she mumbles, probably chewing on her lower lip in the process. "Well, hmm...he's got to be holding them somewhere. Someplace that can be constructed and deconstructed pretty quickly. Someplace that's not going to draw too much attention and he can keep someone for three days." I can practically hear the gears in Nora's brain whirring as she thinks through the process. "No trace evidence to speak of which is a bitch…" my friend trails off and I hear a sharp intake of breath. "I know this is going to sound like a long shot, but…you go to at least three different places, secure room, board and also set up a place to torture and kill a girl. Did you guys ever look into something non-stationary like a mobile home or van or something?"

o…h…k…a…y

I resist the urge to drop the phone and give myself a face palm and say instead, "I knew I kept you around for something. I'll see if that will get us anything. I'm not sure where to start, but that's probably the best suggestion I've heard since…"

"I think the best suggestion you heard was last night when I told you to drop to your knees," Jill purrs from behind me.

I squeak. "Jesus, woman!"

Chuckling, Jill climbs over the back of the couch, pecks me on my neck and whispers, "Tell Nora hello and I need to pee be right back."

I give her a peck and Nora giggles on the other end of the line. Jill trots off as my head swivels around as the doorbell rings. My brow furrows and I stand moving to the front door. "Nor, hang on for me." To the door I ask, "Who's there?"

"FedEx, ma'am," the male voice answers. I check the small window pane next to the door and see a man standing there with a small package. Unlocking the door, I smile and say, "Good morning."

"Morning. I have a package for Jillian Flemming. If you could just sign here," he says shoving an electronic clipboard in my face to sign the small sensor pad at the bottom.

I sign the blasted board and he hands over a large paper envelope. I look at the return address and see it's from her agent. Another script probably.

Great.

"Thank you," I say turning to go back to the house.

"Have a nice day," he says half-heartedly and scurries away before I have time to recognize the fact that he's gone.

"Sorry, sweetie," I apologize to the woman on the other end of the line.

"It happens," Nora says, "Oh, guess what?"

"What?" I play along, taking the package into the kitchen and set it on the island where I know Jill will see it.

"Bobby's got a girlfriend," she says proudly.

I laugh. Bobby Delaney is Nora's younger brother and Nora's fairly protective of him. It's actually kind of cute. He's a uniform on the force and worships the ground Nora walks on. "What's her name and do we need to do a background check?" I figure I may as well offer if she hasn't already done one.

Nora gives a good chuckle at this. "Her name's Carly Ward, she's twenty-eight works in a bank as a financial analyst. Never married, no children. We're having dinner together tomorrow night. They're coming over and Nikki and I are going to cook."

"Uh-huh, what about the background check?" I ask again.

"I promised Bobby I wouldn't," she admits.

I head back to the couch and to my coffee. I take a sip as soon as the mug's in my hand then sit down. "Yeah, but you didn't say anyone else couldn't. I know you, Nor."

"I know," she smirks, "Dan already did. She's clean on paper."

"HA! I knew I liked that old partner of yours. How's he by the way?"

"Good, still grumping about. We went out with his girl a few nights ago," she tells me. Dan Harney her old partner and now lieutenant is a good guy. A bit thick sometimes on the machismo, but all in I like the guy.

"Nice. Phantoms?"

"Yeah, Casey says hi by the way and wants to know when you and Jill are coming back to town." Phantoms is a club that Nora and I have been going to for forever. It's also where Casey, Nora's ex, bartends and helps manage.

"Soon, I hope. Maybe we can come visit for Jill's birthday at the beginning of August. Make a nice stay of it."

"Sounds like a plan. I'll tell Nikki and see if we can put in for some time. I think that should work. We haven't taken vacation since our visit up there for your birthday." Nora stops and I hear some muffled chatter. "That was Nikki," she comes back, "I need to go or I'm sleeping on the couch. She also sends her love."

"Back at her and that's good," I sigh, "I need to get ready anyhow."

"All right. Take care Ann, we love you and Jill." Nora's a sweetie…for the most part. Her general disposition is spotty but with the people that are in her circle, she's as loyal as they come.

"Love you two to," I manage before we hang up.

Sighing, I hit the 'off' button and slide the phone on the coffee table. Jill comes back then, this time looking a little more together. I open my arms and she crawls into my lap. She purrs as I shift and the robe I'm wearing falls open a little. Her eyes track straight to the exposed top part of my breast and I shake my head.

"My eyes are up here, dear," I snark and squeeze her side.

"Hmm," she mumbles, slipping a hand under my robe to cup my right breast, "but these I can fondle." She kisses up my neck, over the shell of my ear and husks, "You have a bit of time before you're due in?"

I nod.

She manages a throaty, "Good," before nipping my earlobe.

Well that does it. Unthinking, I gather her in my arms and stand. She's really not that heavy. Maybe a hundred-ten pounds, but I still thank the F.B.I for the P.T. requirements as I take us back to bed.

I can be a few minutes late

* * *

The office looks very similar to what it did yesterday morning. Everyone is sitting around, but instead of waiting for John and I to kick the meeting off, we're all waiting on Bamby to finish posting the lab results from the samples and tox screenings. Spencer's even here looking better than she did yesterday. It even looks like she's managed a bit of sleep. I'm going to have to set some time aside today to talk to her. See if she'll open up to me.

Ten to one, she's already talked to Bamby, but it's worth a shot. I sigh and lean against John's desk. I'm not expecting a lot. We brought back quite a bit and I'm guessing not all the samples were pure. I'd at least like to hope that we can confirm that's where Talbert was found was where she was killed. That will give us something to work with. I have to assume that the killer was comfortable enough and knew the area well enough that he would work there.

But then you never know and while I would normally hold out hope for the best. I mean when has a little optimism hurt anyone...?

Right, that's not something I do. I like to view myself as a pragmatist. I doubt anyone else would agree though.

"Good morning, people," Bamby chirps and looks up from the computer screen.

I smile. I don't know what else to do with that.

"So I have good news, mediocre news and news that won't help us a damn bit. Which would you prefer first?" she asks coming around to stand towards the center of the room.

"I think we could use a bit of good news first," Lucy says from her seat beside Spencer.

John shrugs, I follow suit. I mean unless she tells me we got a D.N.A. sample from some evidence that we over looked, and better yet, the sample produced a hit off of CODIS than I'm gonna give her a reserved reaction.

"Okee dokee. First things first then. The tox screens came back from Seevers; the results were consistent with what we have found thus far. Extremely high levels of epinephrine, cocaine and such. The cocaine also yielded a bit more than what I could have hoped." With this she pulls up a screen on a fifty inch monitor on the back wall. "How many of you have had exposure to compositional drug analysis?"

"We've all had some. Some more than others. Lucy," John directs his attention to her, "you've had the most."

"I've had a bit, what did you find?" she asks Bamby.

"The cocaine that was present in Seevers was made in the Midwest. We're currently trying to get a more specific location, but that's where my friend from the D.E.A. reported back on."

"Are we trying to determine the location of the other samples?" Travis asks.

"I have been. There have not been enough of the samples for me to really work with, but what I am currently working on is a way to test the samples against the other. I'm mocking up an experiment that may be able to help us break down and analyze its individual components. More on that when I have a better handle on it," Bamby answers.

"The Midwest, eh?" Lucy wonders aloud. "Are you using the ingredients that the coke was cut with or something else?"

"It's a big, general location, but at least it's something. Sam used the overall composite of the drug. She broke down the main ingredients it was cut with and then did a national analysis on the various types," the doctor answers.

"Well what about using a more specific chemical trace, something that can break the overall components down using proportionality, then do a cross comparison there?" Lucy asks. I don' know who she's talking to, but it's piqued Bamby and Spencer's attention.

"Actually, that's why I'm here," Spencer talks for the first time this morning. "Bae and I," I smile at her slip on using her sister's nickname, "were talking last night when the results came in. Before I use up any of the actual samples we have, I'm going to run a couple trials. Figure out what the controls will be. I am also waiting on a return call from a friend of mine that's a professor of chemical engineering at Stanford. William should be able to give us some direction or some assistance with the trials." She folds her arms across her chest and I notice the mark on her forearm. She's in jeans and a long sleeve t-shirt. The arm rode up to expose the abrasion and bruise on her wrist.

I'm definitely going to have that chat sooner than later. I wonder if John's seen it.

"Now," Bamby groans, "We were able to break out the samples that were brought back from Minnesota. Dad, Ann, thanks for all the tedious work. The mediocre news is that given everything that was brought back is enough to give you the definitive answer that Talbot was murdered in that shack. The bad news is that there are way too many biological samples to discern anything else. We were able to break out differing bodily fluids ranging from blood, urine and feces to semen and vaginal secretions. That shack was gross."

"Oh, nice," John and I both groan at the same time, thinking about the hours I crawled around on the floor of that place.

"Yeah, it was disgusting. So, besides identifying the kill site and the site where the body was found as the same place, you two did all of that work for naught. Sorry," Bamby lets us down easy.

I, personally, want to bang my head off the desk. All that work…not a lot to show for it.

"That's all?" John asks from next to me.

His daughter rolls her eyes. "What am I, a magician?"

"No, but I thought that something else would come out of the stuff we brought back," my partner nearly whines.

"Dad, we found five different blood types out of seven different samples, three urine samples, six semen samples and three vaginal secretions. I won't bother with the fecal matter that was pulled nor will I bother with the numbers on the contaminated samples. There was too much. That shack was used for a lot more than killing that girl. Cut us lab rats some slack." Bamby folds her arms across her chest and waits for any commentary her father is going to respond with.

Wisely, John raises his hands in a supplicating fashion and keeps his mouth closed.

"Then let's go back to focusing on what we can. Do we have any more information from our New York division about the phone number?" I ask Travis.

"They're still trying to get the phone logs," he says. "With Bamby's revelation about the drugs, maybe we can cross check and see if any numbers from the Midwest dialed in. Start back tracking from there, but I won't know until the records get here."

Okay. I run my hand through my hair and resist the urge to pout. Crap.

"I can understand everyone's frustration here," Spencer tries to assuage us, "but, the simple facts are that there were too many variables for the evidence collected by Ann and Dad. I'm nearly positive that the back of a delivery truck has not seen that much action. The numbers were deplorable. I mean really how crass do you have to be to engage in intercourse on a dirt floor of a shack in the middle of the woods?"

The flesh on the nape of my neck prickles and I ask, "What did you just say?" Spencer's eyes dart to me.

"Uhm, everyone's frustrated?" she ventures.

"No, the truck, the delivery truck," I say a standing up. The conversation with Nora this morning replaying in my head, 'did you guys ever look into something non-stationary?'

I grin. "Nora's a fucking genius."

"Ann, you want to share with the rest of us?" John snips.

I shake my head. "It just makes so much sense. I was talking to Nora this morning and I gave her the rundown. She asked if we had ever looked into the kill sites being committed in like a mobile home or van, but," I point to Spencer and grin, "Since we have so many smart women running around, a mobile home could work, a van, maybe, but not really."

I put my hands on my hips and think out loud, "A delivery truck, like U.P.S. or FedEx or something like that one of those guys, those trucks are big enough and who in the hell notices a damn delivery truck. It's classic and simple and no one would look twice."

I look around and see a collection of raised eyebrows. How can they not be excited by this?

I try to explain a little more, "Let's think about this for a second, you are a killer. You have cased victims in at least four states, therefore, you're nomadic. It would take a lot of capitol to set up homes in four different states or four different places to keep a victim alive for three days while you cut off her face. What would be the easiest solution to all of your troubles?"

I get nothing but crickets.

So I answer my own question, "A mobile killing room. Something that can be cleaned up and ferried off quickly. I don't know about you, but a delivery truck would make a shit load of sense."

Finally, I see a glimmer of response from Bamby and Spencer. John, Lucy and Travis still look skeptical.

I roll my eyes. You know, sometimes I wish people were a little quicker.

* * *

There really is so much a person can take. Columns of numbers for a few hours at a time are one of them. Yet, here I sit remembering one of the worst cases of my career going over all of the numbers in the Midwest that dialed into the hotline that was set up four years ago.

Four years and the whole thing still gives me the occasional nightmare. Seven kids, one killer and some of the worst acts that can be committed against a human being, let alone a child. I always remind myself that the Lullaby murders aren't the norm. That women don't usually kill seven children in the span of nine days. They don't carve into them. They don't bludgeon them. They don't leave the last of eight alive. They don't cause a five year old to commit suicide.

The case was a one off that I could go the rest of my life and the next never dealing with again. That case nearly destroyed every single one of us in S.I.U. Most serial killing's span a length of time more than two weeks. The patterns indicate that serial killers can function for decades without detection. All of them develop signatures. Few signatures are ever recognized. At least they weren't. With advancements in technology and interdepartmental cooperation, it's getting easier.

These new cases, the No Profile murders, are the few and far between. Playing predator and prey isn't something I'd last long at. I get bored and tend to shoot.

"Ann," John interrupts my thoughts and the flashbacks of the bodies. "Anything?"

I shake my head.

"Then quit thinking so loud." He gives me this mordant smile. Usually, those smiles cheer me up. I'm not feeling it too much right now. He must see it on my face or maybe my eyes. "You're not feeling anything with the number angle."

"No," I grunt. I toss the list on top of another stack of papers. It flutters lamely for a second and then dies. "Everyone has access to that number. The only reason my name was associated with it was because I had to take point on Lullaby."

"You handled it well," he praises.

"Yeah, well, you blowing your cover seemed excessive," I brush the compliment off. John's retirement is contingent upon a few things. Discretion is the first. The second is an on demand disclosure for high-risk consultations and/or operations.

"But you're so pretty, Flemming. The media loves you more." He leans back in his chair and laces his hands behind his head.

"Nice try. Not working." I mirror his posture and look him over. "Why are you dragging your feet with the van/truck angle?" It took me another fifteen minutes to explain my, or Nora's idea. When he finally got the picture, he grunted in a way that denoted his skepticism.

His bushy left eyebrow rises at the question.

I squeeze the bridge of my nose, easing some of the pressure that's been building. With my eyes closed and head down, I press, "You don't drag your feet on my ideas. Hell, John, you take point and run with it. Why this?" I raise my head and lower my hand, looking him the eyes. "Do you think I'd be sitting here looking through reminders of one of the worst cases of our career?"

He bobs his head. "All right. You want to go down this road. We'll go." He sits up and rests his elbows on his desk. His eyes don't break contact and I don't like the look that's brewing behind them. "First things first, I don't know if it's the best idea. My instincts are telling me that it doesn't fit. In all my time and the cases I've worked, there's nothing that really fits this profile except long-haul truckers. I discredited that notion because people notice eighteen-wheelers when they roll through a neighborhood. Moreover, the killings do not fit the stylistic markers of a nomadic trucker."

He raises his hand, his index finger points at the ceiling, "One, the vics are rooted." His middle finger joins the second, "Two, there's no overt sexual angle to any of these and three," his thumb joins the other two sticking up from his palm, "I've never heard of a trucker or anyone fitting the psychological profile of a trucker with a medical background."

His fist lowers and his index finger jabs into the steel of his desk, "There's all of that Ann and then the letter. Everything in my body is telling me that letter was left specifically for you, to you. We just don't know what the message is supposed to mean. That number was created expressly for Lullaby. It's linked. It's probably obscure but there's a link there. This means the killer started to fixate on you during that time. We pulled the number as soon as the case closed. I made sure of it personally."

"So we abandon the idea altogether?" I ask as my arms fold across my chest.

"For now, yes." His jaw quivers as his teeth grind together.

We stare across our desks at each other. The seconds tick by and neither of us give any ground.

He breaks first and asks, "I did send Lucy and Travis out to ask around again, doesn't that count?"

I shake my head. He grunts and crosses arms like mine. I let him stew a minute more and then say, "So what?"

"What?" His brow furrows and he frowns.

"What does it matter if this guy is fixated? All the better for us." It's my turn to prove a point and I stand. Moving around to his side, I lean against his desk causing him to scoot back to make room for me. "You're going off your instincts, which don't get me wrong, are killer. But, we also need to look at this rationally. Out of all the possible scenarios available to us to consider, a mobile killing site makes the most sense. Just like truckers. This one is different. This one doesn't fit a known profile, but then again John; we don't have much to go on. We're going off our experience and education. If it's not taught and not experienced, we're dead in the fucking water, partner."

His lips form a thin line and he shakes his head. There's something else there, hidden underneath his surface. I see it every now and again with him, this other side that he doesn't like to give voice to, but it's that that's making this decision for him. It's the wrong one.

"You know just as well as I do that delivery trucks don't get noticed. It's a great cover. The inside is easy to hose out, there's no wood, carpet or other fibrous material that would leave trace evidence. It'll transport a body easy enough and if you leave a delivery truck in an out of the way spot, who the hell notices?" I insist. "If our killer's fixated all the better for us. It gives us an advantage. He wants something from me. Does it matter what as long as we exploit the need and manipulate the situation to our advantage?"

"Not at the cost it could mean," he grits out.

I stop at this, cocking my head to the side. "You're worried," I hiss. I didn't mean for it to sound like an accusation, but he takes it that way.

Rising from his chair, he stands in front of me. I rise to my full height, which is shorter than he is by five inches. "Damn right, I am. I just can't figure out why in the hell you're not. You can carry on with the truck and the evidence Ann; it's why you're here. You're good at looking at the whole and breaking it down into detail that others miss. I don't have the luxury."

"John, I…"

He cuts me off, "I have to consider the exposure that you've been getting with Jill. How that can fuel someone that's done these things. Stoking the fires of an obsession that's been brewing for four years, if I'm right. He draws you in, that means I'm in. That means that the entire department is. And for fuck's sake, Flemming, think about Jill." His finger jabs into my shoulder. "You've been by her side. Supportive. Loving. You've done everything right and you two have shown anyone that's bothered to pay attention how happy you are with her. Think. What does that mean?"

I drop my eyes to the floor, searching past the industrial grade grey carpet. He's right. I let him know, "It means that if this guy fits the built profile, his end goal isn't death it's misery."

"Which puts who and what in the cross hairs if he's fixated?"

I swallow the acid that rises in the back of my throat.

The finger that was poking my shoulder goes to my temple. "I get it, Ann. I do. But this scrap of a lead is better for us to go down than trying to find a delivery truck that may or may not exist. The phone number does. Think about how much you're willing to risk." His hand drops to my shoulder and he offers me a squeeze. I smile thinly and am about ready to go back when Lucy and Travis come trotting in.

Both are wearing ear to ear grins, but they fall looking at John and me.

"Someone die?" Lucy says jokingly.

John shakes his head and offers another self-deprecating grin. "Ann and I were having a disagreement. We're good now though." He turns to move in front of me and asks, "What's got you two so happy?"

"Mr. Milton Gilmore," Travis answers, "Seems the older man went to stay with his daughter at the first sign of a cop car. He just got home today. Mr. Gilmore, he's what you would call…" Travis drums his fingers on his thigh trying to come up with the right description.

Finally, I nudge John over to give me a better view of our team.

"He's a retiree that has nothing to do with his time. He remembers seeing a U.P.S. truck around the neighborhood around the same time that Seevers would have been taken and he distinctly remembers the truck on the day of the discovery," Lucy fills us in.

I look at John and he sighs, a resignation in his eyes that may just cost us. We lock eyes for a brief moment, a conversation said with nothing but a look and a frown. We can't ignore this now. But John's right, how much is this going to cost and who's going to pay?

I hate these moments. Life shouldn't be dictated by a single act. It's too much for one decision to bear the weight. It's too much for those that make that decision with nothing to go on but past experience and instinct.

John casts the die as soon as the words past his lips, "I'll call and see if there's any footage from traffic lights that can help us." His eyes drop to the floor at his words and he sets into motion our only choice. We need to move forward and see how it all plays out.

* * *

**Ch. 7 – Merciless Moon**

Our labs are located in the basement of our offices. They house a fully functioning forensics lab capable of running some of the most basic to the most advanced tests currently being utilized by any law enforcement agency and even some tests that are being trialed at the collegiate level. The master of this domain is Bamby. She assists Kevin's team when the need arises and her staff is limited to one, herself, but Lucy and Travis offer support.

Currently our doctor is upstairs going over a few things with John to assist in the search of the U.P.S. truck that's now a larger lead than the phone number. John's not thrilled, but we can't not look into it. While Bamby is occupied, I want to see if I can corner her sister for a chat.

I find Spencer in the middle of the largest lab. She's wearing goggles, a mask, gloves and a white lab coat. Several burners are going and they all have a beaker bubbling on top. I come up short of interrupting her and stamp the laugh that comes up. Her hair is in a messy bun on her head and she looks like the female version of the mad scientist.

It still kind of surprises me that I've watched these girls grow up. When I first met them I thought they could probably take over the world with the amount of determination that each showed individually. When they combine forces, they are nearly unstoppable. Like when they did the research and put in the time to find a school that could actually help them.

John and Becca had them enrolled at this private academy that claimed to be a bastion for gifted children. What they found out was that it wasn't so much for gifted kids as it was for really snotty, rich kids that paid teachers to tell them how smart they were. They didn't like children who questioned and they certainly didn't like children that questioned them. Spencer and Bamby did.

One day when John and I were in D.C. for a Cabinet meeting, he got a call from the school. We left the meeting and got to the school to find a livid head master and two non-contrite girls wearing identical smiles displaying their pleasure at the whole situation. They were seven years old. In their need to rebel, they had lead a small contingency of students in a walk out protesting their inability to express their childhood individuality with dress.

The girls hated the uniforms and Spencer in particular was not a fan of the knee socks nor the skirts. She likes pants, she always wore pants and she found it offensive that as a modern girl in the Twenty-First Century that she should "kowtow to the patriarchal society I was born in." Those are her words not mine. She also, in her very squeaky seven year old voice stated that it was unfair because skirts were "super-duper cold" to wear during the winter months.

Spencer got her sister to follow, which is nothing new. Bamby's been slightly enamored with her sister since they were born or so Becca says. It's easy to see though. They have a good relationship and regardless of looks, each has a distinct personality, a strong one. Bamby just can't say no to her sister, which has and will probably continue to get them into trouble.

"If you stare at me any harder, Annie, I'm going to stop ignoring the creepy-stalker vibe and call my dad," Spencer jokes, interrupting my reminiscing.

I grin at her. "Now, now, Spence, it wasn't like that." I meet her the in the middle of the lab by one of the workbenches. She sets down her flask and pulls up two stools for us to sit at.

"Is there something that I can help you with or did you just come to see all the action?" She finally pulls her goggles up and takes her mask off. I see a smile, but it's not Spencer's smile. Her smile is very much like her father's which means that depending on the mood it's a smile that says, "I'm pleased and happy" or "You've got about two minutes before I tear you apart." The differentiation on the smiles is told in one feature, the placement of the arms for each respective Malone. Run if they smile at you with their arms crossed.

"Well, you just popped into visit so quickly; I just wanted to see how you were doing. Not much chance to talk with this case," I say.

"Hmm, well, I left my apartment and my job unattended and unannounced. My mother and father will not stop the inquisition when I am at home and I have no idea what I am supposed to about it," she states blandly.

"Transparent?" I ask, pointing to my chest and hope self-deprecating humor will win her over.

She nods. "Not to appear rude, but why don't you ask what you came to ask and let me carry on about my day. I promised my sister I would have some answers for her before the second coming."

My mouth pinches and I nod. I'm really not sure how to approach this. The idea that this isn't even any of my business has not escaped my attention, but sometimes my heart will trump my head. I'm concerned. Spencer doing this isn't like her. She's a far more by-the-books person when it comes to her career. She wouldn't just walk away unless something happened. I also know being dishonest in any fashion will offend her as will trying to be ingenuine.

I'm left with one option. I go for it, "Honestly, I'm worried. I've known you for most of your life, Spencer. This isn't like you. I also saw your arm. I'm asking that you tell me what happened and why you're here."

Her head bobs a few times before she sighs and stands. Unbuttoning the lab coat, she's dressed in slacks and a tank top. Her shoes are a pair of Converse that looks like they've seen better days, but at least they look comfy. The lab coat is draped on the seat of the stool before she turns to me and extends her arms.

On her right arm are a set of bruises. Gently, I reach out and take her wrist in my hand, rotating her forearm to survey the damage. The bruises wrap around her arm, right between her wrist and elbow. The markings are large and I'd bet good money that they're from a hand. On her left arm, the back of her bicep and clear down to her wrist is scrapped and scabbed.

The muscles in my jaw quiver as I grind my teeth. I lower her arm and let go. Looking up, I see the worry. "What happened?" I whisper.

"A man and I didn't see eye to eye on a few things," her voice is steady as she answers.

The churning in my stomach increases and some of the acid decides to try and make its way up. I swallow it down and nod slowly. "Where…Did he…" I can't really get the words out.

She must understand, so she reassures, "No. He didn't get that far."

I nod. "Charges?"

She shakes her head. "I just need to…"

Rubbing my chin, I try to get my brain to process the information. She was assaulted. She didn't press charges. Someone tried to rape Spencer. "Does anyone know?" I find it hard to believe that Bamby knows and didn't fly up to Boston to find the fucker and kick his ass…with her father in tow.

"No and I would appreciate it if you didn't say anything. She thinks that I got into a fight. I would prefer to keep it that way." She sighs, slips her coat on and sits back down.

The edges of my vision are a little fuzzy. I blink to try and clear them. It doesn't help. A slight buzzing in my ears persists as I hear me say, "Name?"

"No."

No?

"This isn't a request, Spencer. I want a name," my voice sounds a little detached.

"It's one that I won't comply with. This isn't open to debate, Ann. I appreciate the sentiment, but it's not something I'm willing to pursue. For my honesty, I'm just asking for your confidence. The man that did this has been punished enough," Spencer informs me.

I don't know if I can give her that. John will kill me, Spencer and the guy that did this to her if he finds out. I shudder at what would happen if her mother finds out. Becca's the type of woman you don't cross. I've made it a point to piss her off as little as possible. With John, you know when and what he's going to do. Becca not so much. She's far more ruthless and more creative.

"I don't know if I can, Spencer." She tries to move away from me, but I stop her by a hand on her knee. "Listen to me please?"

A slight dip of her chin is the only indication that I get that she's going to listen.

I lick my lips and try to reason, "You were attacked. Now, regardless of your assailant sealing the deal or not, you were victimized. Chances are that he won't stop with you. I don't know what happened, even though I would like to. I also have to think of the other women that he could hurt." I give her knee a gentle squeeze before I continue, "I don't want to lay this guilt on you. It's not yours, but you also owe it to yourself to do something about this."

Her head drops as she says, "That's just it. I can't say anything. I tell anyone in my family, what's going to happen to him?"

Oh, well…

"I don't disagree that he deserves punished to the fullest extent the law will allow, but if my sister, father or God forbid my mother finds out, his death is on my shoulders. I know who and what my family is capable. I love them dearly, but they've no right to be judge, jury and executioner." Her eyes finally meet mine again and a sad smile is given to me. "I've handled it; I just need you to trust me on this."

"What did you do?" I need to know.

"The man worked at M.I.T. I informed the dean. The dean took care of it. He knew I might take off. He's probably not shocked, but Marcus will handle my leave. The man responsible for the attack has been let go. When Marcus is done doing what he says he will the other man will be lucky to get a job managing a McDonalds in the South End."

"Hey, peeps!" Bamby shouts as she strides in to the lab.

Spencer and I both sigh and give a small chuckle.

"I think you should reconsider, but okay," I say and stand.

"Reconsider what? And Ann," Bamby says coming up to us, "Dad wants you upstairs. They have some information and you two are headed out."

"Thanks Bamby. I'll see you two later," I give them both a wave. I trot back upstairs a little dazed and not sure if I'm doing the right thing or not.

I sigh as I get to my desk. I suppose time will tell.

* * *

"Do you want to comment on this?" I ask John as he hooks a left on to Plank.

When we received the video from the cameras in Stafford, it took the four of us a little over three hours to identify a dozen trucks that were in and around the area the day Barbara Seevers should have been taken and the day that she was found. Of the twelve, there were two that came up with fake plates.

With a little bit of help from Counterintelligence, we were able to get a bit more information on the other two plates. The first truck didn't have anything else on it. The second was picked up a day and a half ago outside of Richmond. The driver was hauling a little bit of weed and a lot of stolen property. That U.P.S. truck went to impound.

Now, we have a warrant that gives us access to the U.P.S. database to look for the information that we need. What we don't have and what we need are the serial numbers on each truck. The camera angles weren't the greatest and while we have great software that will recognize a license plate number with relative ease, serial numbers on a truck take some time. Travis is working that angle. What we're hoping is that someone from U.P.S. will point us in the right direction.

The U.P.S. Customer Care Center is located in Fredericksburg, about ten minutes from my home. This didn't go unnoticed by me or by John. In answer to my question, he grunts.

"That's attractive, John," I chide. Seriously, all he can do is grunt at me after everything that's happened today.

When I got back up to my desk, he was ready to leave and I still haven't had a whole lot of time to process what Spencer said. Okay so I've processed, I'm just not sure what to do with it. If it were my daughter and John knew but I didn't, as his partner I would expect him to tell me. Regardless of the confidence that was promised.

So I fidget as we get closer to the U.P.S. offices. I don't fidget. It makes me feel like I'm fifteen again. I hated fifteen. In fact, if you promised me all the money in the world to go back in time and live my teenage years over again, I'd call you fucking crazy and go home to Jill so she could laugh.

Neither of us was impressed with being teenagers and it's been agreed that we really do prefer the time starting in our mid-twenties up until now. Not all of it's been easy, but we've been together, so it's better than doing it separately.

On top of my annoyance at fidgeting, John picks up on it. Ya know, he's the observant type. "What are you so jumpy about?" he asks, his head swiveling to me, giving me a once over before going back to the road. We're in an unmarked today and he usually likes to drive those. He says it gives him a break from his Jeep.

There's my opening. The question now is do I take it or blow it off. Spencer's injuries and the look in her eyes splash across my internal movie screen. She's going to find a way to hurt me.

I sigh.

"Uhm, did you get a chance to talk to Spencer?" I ask licking my lips.

"She just said that she got into a fight," he shrugs it off.

I bob my head, feeling briefly like one of those bobble headed, dashboard dogs.

"She say something to you?" He turns the corner and the U.P.S. building looms off to my right.

"Yeah, she did. That's where I was when…before we left. I saw her arm." I wipe my hands on my slacks. I can do this. I just need to find the ovaries to. I've done worse, jumped out of planes, been taken hostage by international terrorists, there was that one assignment with a group of Navy S.E.A.L.S. that had me somewhere in the Amazon trying to locate a small faction of a religious group that was raping and beheading villagers and tourists. Then there was that whole telling Jill how I felt, which at the time ended miserably. That was the bravest thing I've done.

It worked out…

Eventually.

"Okay…?" John turns into the parking lot and pulls up to the front of the building, parking the car.

Turning in my seat, I face him, knowing that I'm going to need to face him for this. "We need to talk and I need some things from you before I say anything else."

His right brow lifts and he nods. "Shoot."

"One, don't go bat shit crazy. I need you focused on the case and listening to everything I have to say to you. Two, I want your word that you, Becca, Bamby and anyone else that you know or can command will not do anything like commit premeditated murder." Okay so it's not the best intro to a "talk" that I've ever had. In fact, on the whole, it's probably the worst, but I need him to just not be John for a moment. His natural inclinations are to shoot first and ask questions later.

"Okay," he offers easily.

No, see he's not supposed to say that. He's supposed to be a bit skeptical and give me some bullshit response so we can haggle.

"Ann, seriously, if Spencer's okay, that's the important part. Whoever hurt her, I'm sure got their just deserts. We know Spencer doesn't take shit lying down," he reassures.

I bob my head again.

"All right, so…" I suck in a breath. Breathing helps. Need to remember to do that more often. "She was, uh, attacked. Some guy from the school, tried to…he didn't but she got banged up in the process." I watch his reaction. The only outward sign that he's angry is the grip he has on the steering wheel. His knuckles are white and the wheel gives off this squeak of protest as the plastic cracks under his grip. He stares out of the windshield, looking past the building in front of us.

"She, uh, said she handled it, which I believe, but I couldn't not tell you even though I told her I would. I'm sure somewhere this is going to come back to bite me in the ass later, but if the roles were reversed, I'd want you to tell me. We're partners. More than that, we're friends, family almost, so I just needed you to know what she told me. She's not sure if she's going back to M.I.T. I got the impression that she wasn't super thrilled up there anyhow, but…she's okay. Shaken up, but I think she's okay…"

"Ann, shut up," he hisses.

My mouth gives an audible clack. Right, I can shut up. Quickly, too. Also, somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I'm fully aware that bringing this up while we're tracking down an obnoxious serial killer is not the wisest course of action. It's probably pretty stupid, but in my defense, I'm just trying to be a good partner. Do what John would do if our roles were reversed.

"Name?" he manages in fairly calm voice.

"Didn't give me one. She just said that she took care of it. Also tried to swear me to secrecy."

He snorts. "That worked well for her."

His head swivels in my direction and meets my eyes. Nodding, he says, "You told me. I'm not sure what I'm going to do about it, right now, but…thanks."

"We're good?" I have to know.

"Always," he confirms and pockets the keys.

I take that as my signal to exit stage right and we meet up shoulder to shoulder at the entrance. The warrant is tucked into his coat pocket.

"Let's go piss off the Men in Brown," he jokes, shoulder checking me.

We step into a rather pleasant lobby and wait our turn in line. We don't need to speak, we just observe and as the customer that was before us leaves the counter we step up and flash our badges.

"Hi, Director John Malone and my partner," John introduces us and points to me, "Special Agent Ann Flemming, we need to talk to your DM."

The woman at the counter's eyes grows large and she stammers, "Is…can…"

"Just your DM," I push.

She swallows and picks up the phone. Turning away from us, she whispers into the line. A few seconds of making mouse sounds later, she turns to us again, hangs up the phone and says, "He'll be right down. If you'd like, please wait right over there." She points to a small waiting area.

I look at John and he shrugs. We walk over and look at some of the pictures on the wall. A lot of them are the standard, "Moving at the speed of Business," "Deliver more," and my personal favorite, "What can Brown do for you?" Now I really don't have a head for business. I could care less about profit margins or marketing, but even I think they could have come up with something just a little less open to interpretation.

I'm staring at the poster, when I feel John tap me on my upper arm. Turning to him, I trail my eyesight to where he's pointing. On the far wall is a set of pictures, all of them with a man standing inside or outside a large delivery truck, a truck much like the one we're looking for. The inside of the cargo hold has been gutted and replaced with some type of non-porous floor. There's a bed against the left wall and the right one holds a table and small, RV type kitchenette.

I quirk an eyebrow to John as I hear behind us a tentative, "Hello?"

We turn together to and see a what we're to assume to be the district manager. "I'm Paul Lockele."

"Malone and Flemming. We need the information on this," John says, handing over the warrant. "But, I really want to know about this," John hooks his thumb back to the photos we were just staring at. "Do people do this often? Do you track the information on who and what is sold and where? And can you get this information on the national level?"

"Nice to meet you," he manages after the bombardment of questions. "And this," he moves around us and points to the photos, "Not that often. This guy, Jefferson Frye, bought this truck a few years back, came back when he had it finished. We have a list of the people from this area that have done this." Paul turns back to us, shrugging. "Honestly it's not a lot. One maybe two people. Jeff is the only one that's come back to show us. Nice guy was moving and thought we'd like to see what he did."

"Can you get a list of people that have purchased your trucks on the national level?" I ask.

He nods nervously and motions for us to follow him. This visit way more fruitful than I could have hoped.

* * *

"_Being reasonable will leave you full of bullets, pull it, squeeze it, till it's empty, tempt me, push me, pussies, I need a good reason to give this trigger a good squeeze...I'm a soldier…"_ Eminem rages from Apollo's speakers.

Usually, I hate rap. Tonight, it's part of tradition so; I grin and bear it as I follow a small tactical unit to the outskirts of Jefferson City, Missouri. In less than twenty-four hours, Counterintelligence came through for us on the list that was provided by Paul Lockele. Travis' friend was able to clear up the photos well enough to get a decent approximation of what the truck I.D. numbers are.

The list provided by Paul was comprised of twenty-five different sales on the U.P.S. trucks that were purchased by civilians. We were able to take that list and reduce it to five trucks that could potentially be what we were looking for. In the past five years, only five were purchased, gutted and refurbished. A little bit of fancy footwork on John's part and a favor or two, one of which may have been my first born, and the list was knocked down to three.

With the work from C.I., we were able to match it to one truck belonging to Dennis Addison. With some well-placed phone calls, the data on Addison was pulled without any red tape and the guy matched our profile. Age, forty-three, ex-military, working as an E.M.T. up until three years ago when he went off grid. Current address puts him in Missouri.

The tactical unit in front of us will only be used to provide back up. The four us will take the house as a unit and extract Addison. We commandeered a nice jet that Apollo could be stored in and are using my baby for the drive. Not something that's usually done, but our only other option was John's Jeep and the four of us do not fit even kind of comfortably in that thing. We're using the uplinks to our systems for satellite imagery and the sound system in my baby to get us geared up for the assault.

Long standing tradition between the four of us. General music gets played twenty minutes prior to the take down. At the twenty minute hash mark, Travis gets us pumped with a song of his choice. Tonight, at quarter to ten, it's Eminem. Like I said, rap, not so much. In fact, next to country music, it's my least favorite style, barring Gregorian Monks chanting. That's just weird.

I can at least appreciate the lyrics of Eminem's song. I don't think there's a person who doesn't feel the pressure life offers us. And surprises of all, it's actually pretty damn catchy and the lyrics are well written.

"I'm up," Lucy says and hands over her iPod. Billy Idol's, Rebel Yell kicks on and we all sing along. None of us can sing. None of us care. When you depend on the people you're crooning with to protect you with their life, you don't care so much that any of them are tone deaf.

The song comes to end sooner than any of us would like. John's up this time and he grins a little wickedly as he puts in a CD. A glance in the rearview mirror show two jaws equally displaced as mine. John starts singing, "Shot through the heart and you're to blame, Darlin' you give love a bad name…" The guitar and drums kick in shortly after our collective jaws hit the floor.

I shout to be heard over the music, "Fuckin' John!"

Everyone busts up and decides to get into the music. Hell, it's actually a catchy tune. Anyone with ears and a small appreciation for a good hook, can't deny that's it's a solid song, despite Bon Jovi's somewhat cheesy delivery.

My fingers drum out the beat and we all sing along. John's doing a decent impression of an air guitar and Lucy has her arm slung over Travis' shoulders banging their heads in time with the music. At least their open to Eighties Rock. As the breakdown hits, John leans over, resting against my shoulder he sings to me, "Shot through the heart and you're to blame, You give love a bad name…"

I fill in the backing vocals, "Bad name…"

"I play my part and you play your game, You give love a bad name…"

"Bad name…"

He reaches out and tries to ruffle the hair pulled back in the ponytail. Shying away from him the song plays the last thirty seconds.

Taking a look at the satellite read out, we have another four minutes. Almost enough time to get through my song. I hit the control on the steering wheel and queue up the final selection for the night. It's really not my style of music, but it reminds me of Jill. She adores this band. I indulge her whenever I can so that means more often than not, she gets to play D.J. when we go somewhere. Co-pilot's choice is the rules.

The group's not very commercial and started in the Seventies in South London. They can kind of carry a tune, but their music has a heart. Right now that's what I need. Heart and a reminder of why I'm doing what I'm doing. The drums kick in and I start to sing along, "People say that life ain't fair, And then they say what you give comes round the same, What can you believe?, I say if you want passion in your life, You can't be afraid of pain, You've got to get out and live, Coz freedom's a curse but boredom's even worse, There's a spirit inside that needs to fly…"

My team kicks in on the chorus, "Oi, Oi, Oi is the call, Oi, Oi, Oi, do it all, Oi, Oi, Oi before the flame dies…"

We grin and laugh and for the next few minutes shove what we're about to do to the back of our minds. I'll worry about it when the music stops and we're out of the car with assault rifles in our hands.

We're an odd bunch. I'm aware. Of course I wouldn't have it any other way. These are my people.

The tact team in front of me signals to pull over as the music dies down. I kill the lights and pull in behind their military issue Hummer. I look at John, who looks back at me.

"We ready?" Travis pipes up from the back.

We all nod and throw ourselves from the car. Terrance Bolding, the leader of the unit, comes around to the back of the Hummer, geared up and ready. "You four ready?"

We all nod as he pulls the back of the gate on the Hummer down. He passes out the ballistic vests first. I pull it on over my tight, black long sleeved t-shirt. My black cargo pants hold several things. Two hip holsters and two Sig Saur P226 9mm. My guns of choice. Another is strapped to my thigh.

Next come the mics and ear pieces. I adjust the collar and snap it around my neck. The ear bud is shoved into my right ear. We spend a few minutes adjusting frequencies and testing the equipment.

Terrance starts to hand over the assault rifles that are standard issue, Heckler and Koch MP5 or a variation of such. John stops him. "We brought our own toys." He claps Terrance on the shoulder and trots to the back of Apollo. I hit the release button on the trunk and the three of us go around to meet him.

Pulling the only case in the trunk forward, the latch comes up and we all look down at our weapon of choice for these types of gigs, the Berretta ARX-160. It's an Italian made assault rifle that still is technically in the stages of development. We've been testing them out since late last year and all of us agree the weapon is a win.

The goggles go on and we go dark. John brings the team around off to the side of the house. Terrance's unit hangs back and will only be there in case anything goes south. The plan was simple, two in front and two in back. Do not shoot to kill unless absolutely necessary. Get in and out as quickly as possible.

The adrenaline is running pretty high. I flex my hand around the butt of the rifle. We all nod, giving agreement to the plan John pointed out. In unspoken agreement, Lucy and Travis take the rear entrance. John and I take the front. He hefts a small battering ram in his hand. Travis is carrying the other.

I swallow and a bead of sweat trickles down the nape of my neck. We glance at our watch, lighting up the face to check the time. Nodding to John, I sling my rifle around my shoulder and take the other side of the battering ram. He eases open the screen door, wincing slightly as it squeaks.

He nods once, twice and on three we swing it back and splinter the door frame.

Showtime.

* * *

God damn muther fucking, fucking piece of fucketty fuck fuck shit!

Usually, that string of expletives is unwarranted.

Not.

This.

Time.

My hands grip my waist. The goggles are on top my head. My rifle is rattling against my back. My feet stomp a line through the yard of Dennis Addison's house between one tree and the front porch.

I get it.

Nothing really ever goes according to plan.

What I'd like is for this fucker to be home!

Is that so much to ask?

Of all the bullshit fuckery that could have happened, I get the one thing that really wasn't part of the contingency.

He was supposed to be home. Every piece of intel we had put him at home.

Tonight.

Where is he?

Dunno.

His wife sure as shit doesn't know and his son, his little eight year old son that we scarred the shit out of…?

He just wants his daddy.

He wants his daddy. His daddy that we're trying to hunt down for multiple homicide.

Just how exactly do you have that conversation with an eight year old?

It's not one that I want to have. And it's for damn sure not one I want on my shoulders anyhow.

The weasely little fuck. I swear when I get my hands on Dennis Addison I'm going to ring the bastard's neck.

"Ann!" John barks. I stop my pacing and my ranting to glare over at him. "Get your ass over here Flemming, we need to regroup."

Rolling my eyes while muttering a few choice words, I stomp my way over like a petulant child.

"So, before I start, I want to make sure that no one," with that, John sends me a pointed glare, "is going to hunt something or someone down and kill them."

I fold my arms across my chest, giving John a curt once over to let him know I'm fine. Sure, sure we all know that fine stands for Fucked-up, Insecure, Neurotic and Emotional, but whatever. I'm too pissed right now to give a shit. How in the hell could we let this happen?

We had everything lined up.

I mean everything. The only thing we didn't do was call ahead and let him know we were going to make an arrest.

Now I'm thinking that's exactly what we should have done.

"All right, Shirley Addison stated that her husband hasn't been home for approximately a week and a half. That's plenty of time for this punk to get settled somewhere else. She did give us an address where he houses his, "bitches and toys" so sayeth the wife. I'm thinking this guy's a real charmer. If he was a cheater and he traveled, it may also give us a connection to the other women. Especially, if it is a secret they didn't share with their families."

He hands Lucy and Travis the paperwork Shirley gave him. "You two can head over with Terrence and his team. They'll have a car waiting for you when you get back. We'll stay here and clear the scene. We have a warrant to search every nook and cranny of this fucking place and we did not come here to leave empty handed."

Lucy and Travis nod silently, turn around and disappear in to the back of the Hummer. John and I stand on the front lawn watching the tail lights disappear from view. The night is humid in Missouri, much like the mid June nights Virginia has. My tactical gear cloys at me and I shed the ballistics vest. John takes his off too and I dump them on the back seat of Apollo. The com mic and the goggles are soon resting there too.

My partner and I say nothing as I pull the gear needed to go through the house. We don't need to say a damn thing to each other to know that we're both so pissed; the term "spitting nails" is a literal possibility.

I'm so pissed right now; I'm pretty sure I can punch my way through a fucking redwood and still be mad.

Each with a kit in hand, we make our way back up to the house. Shirley is sitting with a finger of cheap whiskey in a clear glass mug on her couch. Her son is curled up right next to her. His head rests in her lap. I'm not sure what to say to her. She knows why we're here. She knows that we're looking for her dead beat husband because we think he killed at least four women.

John is on the phone as we step into the house. I over hear him requesting a twenty-four hour locksmith. I should have known that he would want to stay until the doors were back up and we can be sure that the woman and her son are going to be secure.

I look at the doorway with its splintered frame. That's going to take a few days to fix. "John," I motion him over, "Why don't we have them pack a few things. They aren't going to be able to fix this overnight."

"Because I want them here. If this guy comes back, I will have a few extra agents sitting across the street looking pleased as punch to be the new next door neighbors. The doors will be fixed tonight. I need it to look like nothing happened here tonight."

I hold my hands up and shrug. "Whatever we need to do."

"Mrs. Addison," John starts, "We're having someone come by to fix the doors." She nods lamely and John runs a hand through his hair. "We also have a search warrant for this house and the property. Do you want to call anyone?"

She shakes her head. Shirley Addison looks like she's so far out of her element that not even a GPS and a personal escort could get her back to being okay. Her hair's a mess, her mascara started running as soon as we started shouting when we busted in the doors. Her son seems to have calmed down considerably.

Small favors and all that.

"Okay, my partner and I are going to start the search." John waits for something from her, but nothing comes. I look to him and motion him towards the kitchen.

"Where do you want to start?" I ask.

"Basement and work our way up and out," he answers.

Nodding, I pull on a pair of rubber gloves and head for the basement. The area is set up like any other basement. Waterproof paint, cinderblock façade. Washer and dryer. A work bench that's seen better days. Concrete floor.

We perform the standard search, looking for anything out of place. Nothing registers, moreover, except for a few spots that fluoresced under black light that proved to be nothing; we left the basement empty handed.

The search in the house proved to be useless and the outlaying property had nothing either. To say we were less than happy about it when we finished up only a little under an hour later is an understatement.

As we packed our gear, my phone picks up volume and I answer it. "Flemming."

"Ann, Luce, we're at the storage facility now. The first address the wife gave was nothing. A standard, rent by the week hotel that had closed Addison's revolving account out two weeks ago. There's no truck here. There's nothing here."

Shit. I press the phone to my shoulder and relay the information to John who grunts. Casting a quick glance to the locksmith who said that they could repair both doors tonight, I shrug.

"Tell her to get her and Travis back to the airport. We're going the fuck home. He's not here and we can look for him there just as easy as we can look for him here. The stupid piece of fuck. I swear Ann when I find the sonuvabitch…"

That's the first time I've heard him really voice his displeasure. It's reassuring. I sigh and pick up my phone, "John says meet us back at the airport. We're going home."

"Okay," Lucy says and disconnects.

John and I slip into the cab of Apollo and head out. We've got everything that we possibly can right now.

"Ideas?" he asks from his seat. His arms are folded across his chest and he looks like a petulant child.

I chew on my lower lip as I race back to the airport. I don't know why I'm doing eighty on roads I don't know, but I feel the need to do something…

I guess driving recklessly is going to be it for tonight.

John poses a good question. Now what?

"Well," I think out loud, hoping he'll contribute something, "we know his name, we know what he looks like. We know he has a small fixation with me."

"Press conference with all the bells and whistles?" he offers, following my train of thought to the T.

"Pretty much. I say we plaster his name and face every-fucking-where. That way it'll be impossible for him to hide too long," I say hanging a hard left onto the highway back to the airport.

"Sounds like a plan," he grunts as he steadies himself with a hand on the dashboard.

I go back to watching the road. I've solved the puzzle now I just need to find my missing piece.

* * *

**Epilogue**

I'm not a religious person and more often than not, I find myself disagreeing with the idea of religion in general. I don't like church. I don't like the bible.

But.

If you were to press me to go to church, I would. I would resurrect an altar and pay homage to the goddess whose thighs I'm between. I worship her with an abandon I have only felt when we are together. My heart swells and aches with each hitch of her breath or grunt of frustration as I tease and taunt her. I press into her, feeling her buck against the palm of my left hand splayed across her abdomen. I hear a muffled groan vibrate through the walls of her thighs. Grinning I run my tongue, stiff and flat through her center. For this, I'm rewarded with a tug on my hair and a "Holy fuck, Ann."

Deciding that I've teased her long enough, I increase the tempo, lashing her, tasting her, drinking her in. Tucking my chin in gives me a little better leverage to increase the thrusts of my right hand and the three fingers moving inside of her.

The muscles in her thighs are the first to lock, the rest of her body, starting from her core outward, draw taut. She raises both of us off the bed, slightly throwing me off balance a second before I regain control and steady my wife. She shudders and shakes under my touch, clamping around my fingers to draw them deeper. I hold on to her, secure, offer her safety as she abandons control.

In this moment, when I hold her, it's as close to a religious experience as I will ever come to. There's this book, Jill made me read about some sword and this guy called the Seeker. It was a good book, don't get me wrong, but my point is that in it there are these people that have this daily devotion. I have changed it to suit my own needs.

In this moment, that devotion becomes repeated, "In your light I thrive. In your mercy I am sheltered. In your wisdom I am humbled. I live only to serve. My life is yours." Jill doesn't know that I do this; she doesn't know I worship her.

As I offer one last hardy lick, cleaning up some of her juices, I give one last final mental utterance of my prayer and crawl up her body. I slide us together, our skin touching every inch on my journey north. She purrs as I ascend. I feel proud, accomplished and satisfied.

Starting with the tip of her chin, I kiss her, then both corners of her mouth, the tip of her nose, her left eye then her right and finally, I press moist lips to her forehead.

"You spoil me," she hums.

"I know," I whisper against her cheek.

Her legs wrap around me drawing our centers together. "Baby," I groan.

"Shh, I'm too tired now, but just you wait missy, tomorrow morning, your ass won't be able to move when I'm done with you."

Chuckling, I rock my hips and her breath catches.

Her eyes snap open, locking on mine when she warns, "Play nice Annie."

"Yes mistress," I say with a hint of sarcasm.

Her smile widens and she pulls me on top of her, my arms wrapping around her back as she shifts our positions. She nuzzles the crook of my neck as my hands trial up and down her back, drawing random patterns with the tips of my fingers.

"I love you," she says in a hot puff of breath.

"Well, that's pretty nifty. I'm fond of you myself Mrs. Flemming," I drawl. The room settles into a stillness. The sounds of our home are muted by the music, A Perfect Circle, playing softly from across the room. I breathe us in. I feel her and hold on. Until we find Addison, our future is very uncertain, but I can't burden her with this. I'd prefer that she live in the moment with me instead of in a future of what could be. I'll protect her. I'll kill and die for the woman in my arms. If Addison wants to try to take this away, the fucker's got another thing coming.

"Baby," she mumbles, "Come back to me."

I blink and look down at the top of her head. "Sorry," I whisper and kiss the top of her hair.

"Thinking about the case?" she perks up and shifts so that we're lying side by side with our hands and legs entwined between us.

I nod.

"You'll get him; you usually do get the things you want." Jill gives me the cheesiest grin then. A knowing grin.

I reach out with the tip of my index finger, not bothering to let go of the rest of her hand and tap the tip of her nose. "I know," I smirk.

"You always had me though. I didn't want to face it. I didn't want to deal with the ramifications, but I always knew that I belonged to you," she says simply, with an earnestness that steals my voice. "You always helped me deal when we were growing up. You were my savior in so many ways. I didn't know what to do with that."

I lift my head off the pillow and cock it slightly. Shaking my head, I tell her, "You have it backwards. You, Jill, were mine. I tried looking out for everyone, but never myself. You did that. _You saved me_. Not the other way around. You were the anchor in my fucked up world and _you, _Jillian Leigh, were my savior. You never needed it. You still don't."

She giggles at this conceding, "Why don't we call it a draw and say that if not for the others influence we would be fucked three ways from Sunday and my life wouldn't even be a shadow of what it is today?"

"Wow," I smirk. "You're feeling quite romantical."

"I'm feeling honest. We don't do this much. Rehash this shit and I'm glad we don't, but tonight…" she trails off and looks past me over my shoulder to something she can only see. "I just think that making sure you know every once in a while isn't a bad thing. I love you. I need you. It doesn't hurt to say that."

"Okay," I say leaning down to kiss her again. I'm a centimeter from her lips when a distinct ringtone draws my attention away.

Groaning, I reach over and turn the phone on, "Flemming."

"Ann, it's Nora." My best friend says.

"I got that. What's up chicken butt?" I laugh.

"Okay, two things, one, never say that to me again. And two, what's up is me looking at the corpse of your person of interest in the No Profile killings. Mr. Addison is lying upright and looking up at the big NOLA night sky without the proper grin to match."

"What?" I sit up and feel the blood begin to race through my veins in an unpleasant fashion.

"Dennis Addison is dead. Nikki and I are looking at his corpse right now, Ann," she says gently.

Oh, just fuck me sideways and call me Jackson.

"We'll be there as soon as possible," I m umble.


End file.
